


A Comprehensive Guide To Love And The Multitude Of Sins It Covers

by With_a_backwards_w



Category: The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Angst, Connor is a Jerk, Happy Ending tho, Kevin’s kinda clueless and sweet, M/M, ORLANDOOOO, Set in canon, TW: the book thing, another tw: child abuse, ballet dancer Connor, like really heavy angst, oh I forgot, poptarts and james implied, trigger warning: suicide, tw: self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-03-09 08:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 39,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18912844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/With_a_backwards_w/pseuds/With_a_backwards_w
Summary: Well, he didn’t necessarily lie. He just didn’t tell the whole truth, as many kids do. In many ways, he’s still a kid, just one that has the weight of all his burdens tossed onto his shoulder. Sometimes, it feels like the weight of the world is lighter than the things he’s been through. He isn’t really going to tell anyone that though.It would be untruthful to say that Connor doesn’t feel lied to about what was meant to be an idealistic mission. A frazzled nineteen year old watching over gosh-knows how many kids isn’t what he’s been dreaming of since he was seven years old, after all. In the backdrop of rural Uganda, he expresses his misery through pink waistcoats and blind optimism, floating from day to day without really thinking. However, he has to remember that the only difference between a D minor and F major is the way you look at it.





	1. brick and wood and nocturnal knowledge

**Author's Note:**

> Agh I’m so excited to start posting this! I have been working on this story for a little over two months now, and it’s finally edited and ready! Enjoy!

Connor had always had a knack for ballet. He had good rhythm, and was certainly flexible, but more importantly, he had an innate sense of calmness that only seemed to come out when his hands brushed the gleaming silver bar in front of him and he counted ‘one, two, three, four’. He had started it because of his admiration for the ballet dancers in his older brother Elijah’s school musical, but now did it more because it was so much fun. His life dream had been to do pirouettes and plies, elegantly leaping across the stage to proclaim his love for dance. That’s all he ever wanted, to dance. The ginger had firmly decided that this would be his future when he was a whole nine years and five months, proudly marching up to his father and declaring that he, Connor McKinley, wanted to be a ballerina. Upon reflecting on his past, he thinks that this was where it began. ‘It’, to be quite frank, is the matter of which we will be discussing today, or the case of Connor McKinley, to put it rather simply. He quit ballet a year later, put his worn out but well-kept shoes tucked in a little red box, and turned off that part of his life forever, a part that rolled with the crescendo of music, To the singing of choirs and the cacophony of chaotic, yet organised applause.

When he was eleven, he became friends with a Steven Glade. He had curly brown hair, large glasses and ever so bright green eyes. Dimples that showed when he smiled and pastel pink lips, the colour you would see on the other dancers’ tutus. He had sleepovers with Connor every single week since he only lived a block away. The two walked home everyday, even when Steve was doing detention for talking back to a teacher, or playing some cruel prank that had backfired, or had been caught swearing at one of those kids who seemed to make it their mission to hurt Connor. Connor, who dances weirdly, who knows all the lyrics to every Billy Elliot song. (He had found the story relatable, cathartic almost. He wouldn’t tell anyone that fact though.)  
More importantly, he was the boy who brushed hands with Steve one too many times, the kid who was just always sitting a little too close, the one who hugged him a little too much. This gave the kids words to hurt, words to kill. Words to describe and tell the truth.  
It’s hard to examine all the factors that ended that relationship, so Connor mostly just skips over that part now.

His world slowly stopped spinning the right way around after a messy and especially bad fight with his best friend. What was once a promising future in D Major was more turning into a messy melodic minor. He became obsessed with his church, since it became the only thing he found solace in. His only friends were the ones that quoted Bible passages after school, the ones who refused to break any of the Ten Commandments their Heavenly Father had set for them. He threw himself into his work, reciting whole verses by heart and joining every program the Church offered. He became district leader. And he was dedicated to maintaining a perfect image. He did an amazing job at it, too. It came as a shock to the others then, (and to himself, though he’d never admit it,) when Elder Thomas was woken up at 3am to a blood-curdling scream from the pristine dull blue bed next to him.

This was embarrassing to Elder McKinley for two reasons. One, he was the district leader, also known as the symbol for the unachievable concept one knows of as perfection. He wasn’t meant to be someone who dreamt of licks of flame crowding him and demons mocking him every night. Two, he had gained an array of pity from the other elders, who’d share sympathetic looks amongst each other in the morning when he appeared at the table with dark bags under his eyes, who’d pat him on the shoulder when he came out of the toilet after dry-heaving for over an hour. His rituals after he had another Hell Dream were always extremely painful, but it was nothing compared to the whispers he’d spot out of the corner of his eye once he left the toilet, sick and dizzy. He was a regular visitor to the house of sin, visits that always seemed to take the form of him curling up into a ball on the couch as he cries his eyes out and prayed so furiously he can’t remember a thing after, until his knees were shaky and his voice was hoarse and his chest was tired from hyperventilating for hours on end. Sometimes, another elder would join him, and they’d sit in silence, neither acknowledging or ignoring the other’s presence. Mostly, he’d just be alone.

“McKinley! I know you’re our leader and all that, but can you help us for once?”  
Connor’s mouth twitches into a frown as James hands him some makeshift gloves.  
“I think Poptarts is having some trouble with the dirt. He’s all ‘Oh! I’m not scared of anything!’, but I’ve had to reassure him over three times that no, there are no bugs in the ground.”  
He laughs at Connor’s confused face.  
“Uh… sure! Just give me a second.” The ginger says, quickly plastering on a smile and bouncing over to Chris, or Poptarts as he and James call him. Elder Price and Elder Cunningham are digging up the soil in the distance, stopping to make the occasional banter, Elder Price’s top two buttons undone and his tie off. The ginger feels a traitorous blush creep around his face, which is quickly washed over with the dirty feeling of guilt he knows all too well. It’s indecent to be dressed like this, no matter how hot it is, he thinks. He forced himself to look back to Poptarts, who seems to be struggling with the concept of a shovel.

Normally, he would divide all the missionaries to do different work. Elder Cunningham would work at the school, Michaels, Neely and Church on building a library (‘Education is the most important weapon against poverty!’ They’d say brightly whenever they were asked if they liked their job), and Poptarts and Price on the garden. He’d do administration and management regarding the other elders. However, there had been a food shortage recently, so Connor had decided to put together everyone’s efforts into building the garden. There had been many complaints, but it had paid off, for the garden was one third of the way towards completion. Elder Neely was wrong, he thinks smugly to himself.

“Hello..? Earth to Carrot-Cake? Elder Price is making me do work… Can you believe it?! I’m his superior!”  
“Elder Thomas, who died and made you second-in-command?” Elder Price smirks, hitting Connor on the shoulder in an overtly obvious way to suggest he should say something.  
“I’m going to eat all your S’mores flavored Poptarts if you don’t do some work.” Connor grins innocently as Elder Price’s smirk widens at the thought of his district leader teaming up with him.  
“If you do that, and I say this with the most love possible Carrot-cake, I will kill you.”  
“That’s against Boba Fett 2:18.” Arnold chimes in, shovel over his shoulder.  
Arnold’s become rather— calmer isn’t the correct term for it, certainly not— mellow after the Mission President visit. He’s started keeping his lying in gear, thank Heavenly Father, but more major, he’s seemed to take away the chip on Elder Price’s shoulder, the ones that he’s so convinced he’s holding all alone all the time. More thoughtful, Connor decides. That’s the word. And, to be honest, Kevin seems to know it too, through that little “I’m-in-love-with-you” look that only best friends can give to each other. Connor contemplates for a second if he, James and Poptarts ever share that look. He concluded that he doesn’t have many looks that he shares with others; probably because looks can be misconstrued so easily, and Heavenly Father knows that’s the last thing the district leader needs.  
Connor sighs. He knows that Poptarts got any say in it, he wouldn’t do any work involving gardening. Maybe even just asking him to interact with dirt was too much.  
“Poptarts, you have five minutes. Go drink some water or something. I’ll cover you.” Connor knows fully well his former companion definitely won’t be back in five minutes, but he’s accepted that that’s just the way Chris is. He makes a list in his head to accomodate for the elders’ slowly failing morale.  
Rearrange the work schedule, get less people on the garden  
Buy more groceries— yam needed  
Are we out of paper for the Book of Arnold?  
Funds for mission?  
He continues the list until he reaches point 57, and realises he can’t remember point one. He falls asleep trying to remember what the first point is, and lives in a dreamless existence that night— no Hell dreams. To be honest, he can’t tell if that’s a good thing anymore. Five years ago, he would have taken it as a symbol of his— of his condition’s improvement, but he isn’t sure if they’re even really about his syndrome anymore. No, maybe the faintly eerie echo of a dream slipping from his mind is worse, calls for something worse than a Hell Dream. Maybe he’s going insane. Maybe he shouldn’t care about himself so much, a part of his brain retorts. He listens to that part and— what was it that he used to say? Oh, right. Turn it off.  
~•~•~  
The missionaries scrape silently at their toast, trying to pick off all the mould that’s accumulated after months of bad storage.  
“I’m doing something about our schedule.” Connor mutters, abruptly standing up.  
“Elder Thomas and Elder Cunningham, you’re maintaining the food supply. Arnold, make sure Poptarts doesn’t spend all our money on sugary items. Elder Neely and Elder Michaels, you’re back onto the library. Elder Church, Elder Price, Elder Davis and I will work on the garden.” He pretends he can’t hear Elder Davis groaning. “This new schedule is non-negotiable and effective immediately.”  
He sits back down with an air of self-assurance, one that might have come from Elder Price a long time ago, or maybe his older brother Elijah, but certainly not from Connor.  
Poptarts, who nowadays sometimes seems to know Connor more than the district leader knows himself, approaches him after breakfast.  
“Carrot-cake, I respect and love you and all that, but don’t you think you’re working a bit too hard on the garden? The food won’t go anywhere. You seem really tired and- and gosh Con, we’re concerned about you; me, James, shit, even Kevin looks worried when he sees you in the morning. Kevin! He worries about no one, Carrot-cake. Take a break, please.” He blurts out, then looks down as if he hadn’t meant to say that much. He’s always had a habit of speaking his emotions too clearly.  
Connor frowns, putting his finger on his chin as if he’s thinking. He decides to play it calm.  
“I assure you Elder, I’m fine. I understand and acknowledge your concern, but this project is certainly doable-“  
“I’m not saying it isn’t doable, I’m saying you’re going to die from lack of sleep!”  
“Elder, you don’t understand. We need this garden.” His voice is firm.  
“At the price of your sanity? Gosh, you’re stupid sometimes. You overwork yourself and always, always leave others to pick up the mess.”  
“That’s kind of funny,” He doesn’t think before he starts speaking again, because of course he doesn’t. “‘My sister died of cancer, so I don’t use phones and I do dumb things like refuse to learn a basic tap dance sequence.’” Connor says the last part in a falsetto, twirling his copper hair and giggling. He can see Elder Thomas’s eyes turning glassy, can see him rub his hand against his shoulder; and that’s when he knows he’s pushed too far.  
“Remember Steve? And how you won’t even touch a guy anymore in fear of it seeming gay?”  
Connor hesitates.  
“My life was perfect, Chris. I was a perfect child. But then, you came along with your dumb phone and emotional backstory and ruined it.”  
“You ruined yourself, Connor. You ruined yourself the moment you proclaimed ‘Turn It Off!’. You know that. You know the pain you caused me, the pain you caused all of us. You know, James is terrified of showing emotion now. You messed up, Connor. But you still live in that dumb fantasy of yours, thinking if you work harder everything will resolve itself. It doesn’t.”  
“You storm in here, tell me how awful I am and expect me to suddenly be bawling at your feet and quit working? Wow, someone’s parents spoiled them.” They’re yelling now, and the noise is deafening, and they can tell that everyone’s listening, but they both don’t care. Connor’s mouth is saying things he never thought he could say. He isn’t particularly thinking, but instead trying desperately to stop. He knows he’s pushing too far. He knows he’s hurting someone he loves. The thing is, once you turn it on, you can’t really turn it off again.  
“At least my parents didn’t send me to conversion therapy because I’m such a failure!”  
“Elder, remember that trick we learned? Turning it off? It might suit you some good.” Connor’s voice is icy and accusatory.  
“I thought we didn’t do that anymore.” Elder Thomas whispered, broken-hearted. His face instantly melts from the hardened resolve he had been wearing before.  
“Maybe we should.” Connor mumbles as Elder Thomas walks out, head hung low and completely silent. Connor knows he’s struck a nerve, but he can’t bring himself to apologise.

Time seems to stop after the fight. They don’t really have any more fights, instead settling for a strange equilibrium. It hangs in the air and puts others on edge, but Connor, for perhaps the first time in his life, can’t find it in himself to care. His words echo around in his head, ‘maybe we should’, ‘maybe we should’, ‘maybe we should’, and, maybe as a result of this, maybe not, he finds himself staring down a ringing phone less than a week later. The sound is bright, a clear F sharp, he thinks to himself. He knows he shouldn’t pick it up, he shouldn’t care. He knows it’s going to be the same kind of thing he’s been hearing the past two weeks, he’ll never have his family back and picking up will only worsen the pain. His parents were the only ones that still called their child after the ‘visit’’, as the elders had resigned to calling it. Maybe that meant they still love him, thinks Connor. But he knows that parents don’t call their children’ failures’ or ‘tempted by Satan’ or ‘weak and pathetic’. But what if this is just a rough patch, and it’s better to keep in contact? What if he’s analysing their messages incorrectly? What if it’s something bad? Oh gosh, oh gosh.  
Before he can think the better of it, he finds himself picking up the phone.

“Dad, I am not a failure. I’m still your child, and I love you. It wasn’t even my fault!”  
“You were supposed to keep those missionaries in line. But you couldn’t. Elijah could do it, why couldn’t you? Elijah doesn’t have alternate thoughts. So, why do you have to be such a screw-up? Listen for once, gosh, I’ve made an official complaint to the church. You’ll all be formally excommunicated in a few weeks, I think. I’ve sent you a plane ticket home. If you don’t come back, expect a lack of funding.” He states it emotionlessly, factually.  
Connor’s silent for a few seconds. “..What? Dad, no… Stop calling me that!” He takes a shaky breath. “Dad, I’m staying, and I don’t care what you think.” (Maybe he cares a little, but who would he be to admit that? That would make his statement a lie, and Mormons don’t lie, not even sparkly pink tap dancing ones that accidentally start something faintly resembling a cult.)  
“You never loved us, Connor, did you?”  
Connor sucks a breath in, the icy air burning his tongue. He’s not particularly used to being yelled at; he finds he isn’t really sure what to do with his voice or his hands or his now really dry and uncomfortable mouth.  
“I did, before you stopped reciprocating it. Kevin loves coffee, and he swears, and he’s still religious.” To be honest, Connor isn’t really sure if the last part is true. “Why can’t I, Mr McKinley?” He doesn’t want to hear another response from the man he once called ‘Father’, queasiness ticking against his stomach. He slams the phone into the holder and unplugs it, walks back to his office and slumps into his chair. He can’t find it within himself to cry, so he decides to do something to put his mind at ease.. After some contemplation, he walks back out and makes a cup of black coffee. It’s disgusting, to put it lightly, and it makes him feel nervous, but the fact it makes him feel anything is enough persuasion to drink more, until he’s exhausted all of Elder Price’s coffee (Which was no easy feat, especially as there was enough coffee for 14 cups) and a faint tug of guilt weighs down his stomach, until it’s replaced with a fresh wave of anxiety. He grins to himself, trying to make himself feel slightly lighter, and waits on the couch. He isn’t sure how long he stays there, but he’s lost in his thoughts when Elder Church comes back carrying some sticks.  
“Hey Con, I thought it might be nice to make a campfire- Con?”  
Connor’s chest rises and falls quickly, and a faint wheezing sound can be heard whenever he exhales, but he isn’t really panicking. The nervousness from the coffee had worn off hours ago, and now he’s just lost in a maelstrom of alertness and dream. He isn’t thinking, but his body aches from the heat and he wants nothing but to feel, but maybe some calmness could be nice too. He tries to speak, but nothing comes out and he can’t remember any words, only dread and agony.  
“Con.. can you hear me? Carrot-cake?”  
“James…?”  
“Are you okay?”  
“C-can’t speak… loud…”  
“It’s too loud for you? I’m the only one in the hut.”  
“Yes… loud..”  
“Uhm… are you okay with being touched?”  
Connor feels his chest tighten up at the very thought of anyone touching him. He shakes his head, staring blankly at the wall.  
“Ok, breathe. Just.. copy my breath, Carrot-cake.”  
He breathes in for four seconds and out for seven, shaky but almost strangely sure, in a way. He almost loses it again and again, but soundlessly, time and time again, he manages to regain himself.  
~•~•~  
Steve’s grey hoodie hung loosely over his frame, his dark ringlets tightly curled, a stark contrast against his sickly-pale skin. Connor lived a street away from Steve, so it had always been clear they would become friends. No, not just friends, Connor thought. Steve’s his best friend. He was just a month older than Connor, but it meant he was in the grade above. Even though he had friends with those in the year above, he always seemed to make time for a particular ginger who was half a head shorter than him. The two always sat together on the bench behind the playground. Steve would give Connor half his cookie whenever life got the better of him. This wasn’t very often, as Connor was a good Mormon boy, but it was always nice. Steve was smart and knew a lot of words, including the terms ‘homo’ and ‘gay’, which seemed to pop up a lot, especially amidst more colourful language. Maybe that was why he turned so white when he saw taunts being thrown at Connor, ones the redhead didn’t quite understand the meaning of. This made Connor feel special, so every day after school he would excitedly tell Mom about Steve after school. He didn’t ever tell his dad, though. He did so once and his father had responded very strangely.  
“Connor, Heavenly Father puts things on Earth to tempt us into sin, to test us. Do you understand?”  
His face was stony and grey, and if Connor was slightly afraid, well, he tried not to show it.  
“What’s sin?”  
“Sins are bad things you do that Heavenly Father doesn’t want you to do. These are things like swearing, yelling and not respecting your teachers.”  
Connor nods as if to say he understands, even though he certainly doesn’t.  
“Does Steve do any of those things?” His father inquires gently.  
Connor wants, with all his little heart, to tell the truth and nothing else. But the words won’t form. Instead, his first lie he’s ever told tumbles out.  
“Steve never does that.”  
He will never forget his father’s pleased expression as he ruffles his wisty orange hair.  
“Good. I see you have chosen the path of the righteous. Don’t let sin tempt you, Connor.”  
~•~•~  
Connor McKinley is not a very good Mormon now. He may be clueless sometimes, but at least he’s aware of that fact. However, he doesn’t brandish the label or proudly break rules, even though the Church has said, in no unclear terms, to ‘piss off’, as a slightly more rebellious Mormon might put it.

And that brings him to the issue of Elder Price. Elder Price was meant to save them all, to get their baptism numbers above one. Turns out, he’s a childish narcissist who firmly believes the world revolves around him. How heroic, Connor thinks. However, Connor, as much as he hates to admit, may have taken quite a fascination with him. His subconscious mind always seems to put the two together, even though it makes no logical sense. He doesn’t seem to make much sense these days.  
“Hey, James. Come here.” He mutters.  
“Huh, Con?”  
James always seemed to be extra careful around Connor since his- his little accident.  
“Does that garden pole look a little skewed?”  
“It’s fine. Stop worrying about it. We can redo it later.”  
“No James, tell me the truth.” Connor mumbles, biting his lower lip.  
“It’s slightly skewed, but it won’t affect the garden whatsoever.”  
Connor walks towards the pole.  
“C’mere, help me take this out.”  
“Connor, this is unnecessary.”  
“I don’t care.” He hesitates before saying more. “I’m your district leader, James. This is a command.”  
He can hear James sigh as he walks over and helps Connor lift up and pole and put it back in, fully straight this time. Connor pets his creation as if it’s a living human being. They sit in silence for a while, until James finally speaks.  
“You don’t always have to live up to your expectations, Carrot-cake.”  
“I know.”  
Connor has a stupidly happy grin on his face as he walks back to the hut, and can’t for the life of him figure out why.  
~•~•~  
“Can you even name two musicals?”  
“Duh, The Little Mermaid and Mulan?”  
“Stage musicals, Kevin. Oh-em gosh.”  
“Are they not stage musicals?”  
“I think the Little Mermaid is, but you were definitely thinking of the movie, weren’t you?”  
Kevin offers a sheepish grin, and starts humming ‘Under the Sea’. Connor can’t help but join in.  
_Under the sea_  
_Under the sea_  
_Darling it's better_  
_Down where it's wetter_  
_Take it from me_

They finish the song in peals of laughter.  
“No, but you do really have to listen to some musicals. They are the only good thing about this sad, sad planet.”  
“God, I really have rubbed off on you, haven’t I?”  
“I like to think I’ve still got a while to go until I pass out next to a bus stop after throwing a tantrum, Kev.”  
“Yeah.” Kevin bites his lip and tousles his copper hair. “I wasn’t a very pleasant person back then, was I?”  
“No, you weren’t. But I wasn’t either.”  
“When I arrived, and you and everyone else did the tap dance sequence, I thought you had gone insane.”  
“Turn it off, turn it off like a lightswitch. Just go click! What a cool little Mormon trick!” Connor whispers under his breath.  
“What happened to those pink waistcoats anyway? I never saw them after.”  
Connor feels a wave of emotion rush to his head. It has the same timbre, the same feeling, to what he felt when he lied to his Dad about Steve. Well, he didn’t necessarily lie. He just didn’t tell the whole truth, as many kids do. In many ways, he’s still a kid, just one that has the weight of all his past mistakes tossed onto his shoulder. Sometimes, it feels like the weight of the world is lighter than the things he’s been through. He isn’t really going to tell anyone that though.  
“They’re in the trash. I tossed them after I realised how wrong I was.” He squirms, uncomfortable, and looks at Elder Price to see his reaction.  
“Oh. Cool! Hey, when do you think we’ll hear back from the church?” Kevin laughs, clearly sensing something is wrong and anxious to change the subject. Connor exhales and bites his tongue.  
“My father contacted them. Apparently we’ll hear back from soon, but mail in Uganda certainly isn’t a very efficient system.” He smiles, melancholic, and walks out without a further word. He sees the slightest hint of Elder Price looking confused, but he all he knows is he has to get out. It’s suffocating and cold to avoid contact for he rest of the day, but he tells himself it’s what’s best.  
~•~•~  
Connor has always had a small group of friends. He’s always gravitated towards those tiny, but close groups that all liked each other. It’s what he’s used to. He’s known James since he was eleven, the year after he quit ballet. He had light brown hair that darkened as he grew older and large blue eyes, and he was a great friend, but he wasn’t Steve. He had always been confused about James. He’d sometimes walk to school with unexplained bruises on his face and body. He never told Connor why, but the latter would always give his friend some distance on those days. Sometimes, the bruises would get worse and multiply, and James would arrive at school with a blotchy face and sweat stuck to his hair. He’d always explain it away, ‘It was my fault, I fell down the stairs’, or ‘I’m really clumsy and fell off my bike’. Connor forced himself to believe James, even though a part of him wanted to tear his own skin off and scream of injustice until his blood was cold. It wasn’t fair, and he felt terrible about it, but he couldn’t fully piece together the puzzle. James often stayed at his house. He had even more sleepovers with Connor than Steve ever had! Connor liked that a lot, but James always seemed to feel slightly guilty about his. Why feel guilty? Connor loved having him over.

As Connor grew up, the truth slowly came out. He managed to put most of it together, pieces that came in the form of little flashes in the corner of his eye, or one too many fake smiles. James had always been reluctant to open up, but Connor had tried to organise a sleepover every time the Utah Jazz was playing.

When they were nineteen, they both learned they were getting sent to Uganda together. They had cried tears, tears of joy and sorrow at the same time. All their friends were going to France, or Australia, or Canada. But them? They were travelling to a small village in Africa, unsure of themselves and with almost no life skills. Connor had been assigned district leader, and his parents were ecstatic. It felt nice, to be loved, to be able to sweep away the side-glances on the trips to therapy and hide it all under the banner for love. They were a perfectly normal family, thank you very much. James and Connor were excited, a little unready, and ready to leap without looking.  
~•~•~  
Connor runs his hands around his arm, the one James grabbed so hard, four years earlier, as a confession long overdue came out. It’s another one of those nights, the ones that make you weep and gnash your teeth and vomit until there’s nothing left, not even the energy to turn it off. Even though turning it off made you feel blank, it was a vastly different kind of blank to ‘I feel empty because I’m going to be sent to hell’ blank. Connor sits on the couch, numb. He wants to drift off, he really does. It isn’t like he physically can’t, either. He’s just… scared of what lies in the unknown, in the dreamtime space your brain creates when you’re unconscious. Connor thinks sleep could be great, it could be like temporary death where you don’t have to think or feel or manage 7 teenagers or recieve letters from your family saying you’re such a huge failure. But, with sleep comes nightmares, and it’s been so long since he has had a normal night’s sleep. It’s a punishment and a curse, and it leaves him on nights like this, numb, cold, empty. 

He hears heavy breathing coming from the corridor. It gets louder and louder, until Elder Price storms in. His hair is wild and tangled, and he’s laughing to himself, manic grin on his face. Every ten seconds or so, a flitter of emotions fly across his face before he once again settles on.. whatever this is. He sits on the seat across Connor and doesn’t say anything. Connor tries to ignore him, and it’s pretty successful for a few minutes, until Elder Price speaks.  
“C..Connor. You- You know the thing about all religions? Yeah, all of them? They lie. They lie and pretend it’s the truth, but the universe doesn’t make rules for us that we just have to follow… that doesn’t make sense.. It d-doesn’t make sense and- and why do they even lie to us? God, Connor…” He laughs loudly, harshly, his voice guttural against the silent stars above them.  
“I… I can’t breathe, Con… help..”  
Connor runs to him and panics, thinking of what he should do.  
“Erm.. oh gosh, oh gosh Kev…” For his mission, he was trained to proselytize and answer questions, not to calm down- not to calm down whatever was happening right now.  
“Connor McKinley, Heavenly Father tempts us with sin. Those who are tempted go to Hell. Connor, do you want to go to Hell. Do you want to go to Hell? Are you a good Mormon boy?” Elder Price suddenly puts on his best missionary smile and pretends to be okay, but his voice is still strangled and he struggles to get the words out.  
“Connor… I actually smuggled some beer from Mafala’s house. I drank some before lights out. G- Gotswana prescribed me painkillers, you know that? Painkillers make me feel better, Con. So.. so I took some with the alcohol. A lot.. like a huge amount, really. The entire box! God, can you believe that? My.. my parents would be so proud of their amazing Mormon son, huh?”  
Specks of spit fly out from his mouth.  
“When I was nine, my family took a trip to Orlando, Florida. Shit, I’ve already told Arnold this story, haven’t I? Well, more shit to hold against the great Elder Price’s head, huh? You know, I’m not Elder Price. My words are not him. I’m Kevin, and I lie awake at night debating how painful it would be to die, b-because God…”  
“Kevin… Do you want to relay the story again? I really don’t mind.”  
“Sure! Sure you don’t mind, the gay Elder McKinley, who taught us to turn it off, why wouldn’t I tell you? It’s not.. It’s not like you forced your unhealthy coping mechanisms on us and fucked me up forever, right? But, I’m not one to judge, if that’s what you want. It all began, roughly… eighteen? Nineteen? Some number of years ago.”  
He rattles off a story of betrayal, heartbreak and affliction. His eyes seem to glaze over at the part where he talks about the General’s camp, and snaps back into reality.  
“And then, you were all ‘Well, we should follow Arnold instead!’ Do you know how fucking crushed I was Connor? D-do you know? Sometimes I feel as if I’m faking madness… Hamlet? Have you ever read that? It’s about this prince who fakes madness.. but it’s left unclear as to if he’s actually insane. And.. And if I have fallen to madness, what do I do? Wh-where do we go from here, Connor? My parents don’t even talk to me. They hate me, Connor. I’m so alone.. I’m so alone… Connor, I want to end it all. I’ve tried, believe me.”  
Connor is shell shocked. He stares at Kevin. The familiar feeling of suffocation comes back to him, and he picks at the grey hoodie he wears, in the exact same colour Steve always wore. He realises an unfortunate truth, that his actions affect others, but can only stare and think ahead.  
Kevin seems to make a decision, but Connor can’t tell what it is. 

He runs towards the door into the rain.  
~•~•~  
“You should talk to him.”  
James nudges Connor whenever Poptarts comes into the room, and shares a knowing look with the 5’4 boy. Connor’s eyes brush over to Poptarts, staring at him curiously, intensely, as if he’s analysing all his facial details to create a map of them later. And then, he looks away. He always looks away, and he isn’t quite certain why. It’s not even like they’re fighting anymore, or speaking at all, for that matter. They acknowledge each other, two balances on a scale. Connor is calm and peaceful, he hits his personal low and stays there, never going up or down, just.. balanced. And, to be honest, a part of him doesn’t want to change. He knows a good district leader doesn’t prioritise themselves before their district, but they also aren’t supposed to leave their companion, and they all know how well that turned out. It’s not like he can do anything about it either, since Poptarts never wanted to be around him. He falls into an old habit he practiced once: ballet. His steps fall in line and he clears the fog in his head. His hands brush the coffee table and he’s able to think. He isn’t as flexible as when he was ten, but if it freezes the cogs in his brain for a minute as he focuses on third position, that’s enough for him. He goes to a place that’s nowhere, yet everywhere, where he can erase himself and stop thinking about Poptarts, of Kevin’s faltering faith, of his parents and the plane ticket. He slowly, carefully does a plie, his arms moving elegantly by his sides, one, two, three, four.

He keeps ballet a secret. He knows why, but pretends he doesn’t. His sparkly pink elephant in the corner of the room must never be brought up, and he feels like doing ballet won’t make that- that aspect of his personality, to put it lightly, better viewed. Sure, they aren’t Mormons anymore, or won’t be soon, but years of treatment hasn’t really helped him do anything above increase his fear for his condition. If he freezes in fear when he touches anyone, outside of punching them, he doesn’t think he can ever fully accept himself. A good Mormon wouldn’t accept themselves, and he’s still a Mormon, after all. The good part is debatable. He keeps his energy of confidence and kindness, though inside he feels himself split with every day that passes.

A week or so later, he talks to Kevin.  
“Elder Price, can I speak with you in my office?”  
He can catch the suspicious looks from Poptarts, but stores that memory away to think about later.  
“Elder McKinley? What’s happening?”  
“Elder, do you remember- uhm… yeah, uh..” He finds himself unable to speak, as if his tongue is literally tied. “Uh, you know last Tuesday morning?”  
“The day when Arnold spilt his water at breakfast and the scorpion ran inside the hut?” Kevin shrugs.  
“No… uhm.. that early morning? Like… 3am early? I… you came and..”  
“What?”  
“Uhm… okay. I was on the couch, and that morning, you ran in and started screaming. After I tried to calm you down, you ran into the rain. Do you want to talk about that?”  
Kevin frowns, his finger poking into his chin. His eyes grow wide and he starts running his fingers over a spot on his arm.  
“I.. yeah. Yeah. I remember that.”  
“Okay. Do you want to talk about it?”  
“Not particularly.”  
“Please?”  
“I’m sorry for anything I might have said, Elder McKinley, but I’m just not comfortable speaking about it.”  
Connor sighs and dismisses Kevin, who leans in to the district leader’s desk, a piteous ‘sorry’ look on his face. Too close, actually. Connor feels his body go numb and he stumbles away, sweating. He breaks into a run and realises his face is wet. Gosh, when did he cry? Connor- Connor McKinley does not cry. He doesn’t. He finds himself on his bed, arms around his knees and blue eyes glassy.  
“Hey, Carrot-cake, are you okay?”  
The silhouette of a blonde 5’4 boy stands at the door.  
~•~•~  
“Not really.”  
“What happened?”  
Poptarts makes a move to sit next to Connor, but the ginger signals not to.  
“Elder Price freaking happened.”  
Poptarts, as if on instinct, inspects Connor for any- for any bruises that- er- that Elder Price could have- affected.  
“It’s not that, Chris. He… we were talking. And he… He leaned onto my desk.”  
Connor knows that Poptarts understands. His previously confused look was now replaced by one of concern.  
“Carrot-cake, what did you do then?”  
“I ran here and started crying.”  
“Not a very healthy coping strategy.”  
“I know. But he was just so close!”  
“Connor, look at me.” Connor eyes the smaller boy warily. “Can I hug you?”  
Connor nods miserably, and feels his body melt into a gentle hug. He’s hasn’t been hugged since his first session of treatment, back when he was eleven. And, he feels himself hugging back, his tears dripping onto Chris’s shoulder. Gosh, how did he deserve someone like Chris? He feels himself tense up. He isn’t supposed to act like this.  
“Con, friends show affection to each other. This is normal. This is what heterosexual boys do when their friend is sad.” Poptarts whispers into his ear. He relaxes.  
After they pull away, Connor has the biggest, dumbest grin he’s ever had since he quit ballet.  
“Thanks.”  
“Are we fighting anymore?”  
Connor laughs. “I guess no, not really.”  
~•~•~  
Connor runs his fingers along his cheek. He wouldn’t let anyone ever know this, but that was where Steve kissed him so many times. The first time was after a ballet class. Connor had been packing up his items, putting his shoes into his little dance bag, when Steve had ran to him, glint in his eye.  
“Connor! Mum says you’re coming home with me. We’re having a sleepover!”  
Connor smiles mischievously.  
“Epic! Let me just pack these up.”  
He hums ‘As We Stumble Along’ from The Drowsy Chaperone, a musical Elijah had performed in last year. The two skip home, side by side, holding each others’ sticky, sweaty hands in that innocent way only children can pull off. They get home and start watching a movie.  
“Connor, Mom says we can watch Harry Potter, Star Wars or The Hunger Games.”  
“Isn’t The Hunger Games like.. really violent? My parents wouldn’t let me watch any of those movies.”  
Steve smiles mysteriously.  
“Then, we’ll just have to watch them here.”  
They watch The Hunger Games. It’s so different to the things Connor watches at home, like VeggieTales or Disney movies. It’s scary sometimes, but Steve always hugs him tightly when someone dies, and if he pretends to be scared so Steve will hug him, well, it’s not as if anyone’s watching. They get up to one of the last scenes, where Katniss, Peter and Cato. Cato is about to kill Peter, when Steve pauses the television.  
“This scene’s pretty scary, Connor. Are you sure you want to keep watching?” Connor nods, giving Steve a hug. Steve presses play again. After the movie finishes, Steve and Connor fall asleep right next to each other, Connor in his bright red sleeping bag, and Steve in his light blue one.  
“Connor, I really like you.”  
“I like you too, Steve.”  
Steve smiles mischievously again, and kisses Connor on the cheek. Connor feels his face grow hot, so he laughs at himself and kisses Steve on his cheek too. It’s even now. They quickly pretend to be asleep again, but everyone can see that their grins are too big for them to be sleeping.  
~•~•~  
“Elder Davis! We’re finishing the Book of Arnold with Prophet Cunningham today.”  
A few months ago, Arnold had decided to turn the aptly named Book of Arnold into a real, physical book. Given the distinct lack of printing presses in Kitguli, they had managed to do a rather impressive job. Connor is proud that he’s a part of the book, one of the 6 Apostles who listen to Arnold, along with Poptarts, James, Kevin, Neely, Davis and Naba. He isn’t so proud, however, that his now famous motto, “Turn It Off!”, has become an imperative part of the book. He generally isn’t proud of himself in the past, period. He doesn’t think anyone else really is, either.  
“Do you think we can add a romance sub-plot?”  
Kevin presses his pencil against his chin, his large brown eyes looking into the distance the way they do when he’s thinking.  
“I mean, the Bible doesn’t portray love very well.” Elder Davis adds, smirking.  
“Okay, all those who say yes, put your hand- oh.” Arnold sheepishly smiles as his sentence is cut off by everyone in the group putting their hands up.  
Connor debates speaking, but he finds the words tumbling out before he gets to think properly.  
“With the Book of Arnold preaching tolerance and all that, do you think we should add a same sex story?” He says, looking away from the others to try and avoid their looks of what he assumes to be shock.  
Silence.  
“Oh- em gosh Connor! That’s an amazing idea!” Arnold is the first to speak, his blue eyes lighting up with this new prospect and all the opportunities it unlocks.  
“Yeah, I think that’s a pretty good idea. God knows we need more acceptance here.” Elder Davis remarks, glancing at Kevin for a second too long. Connor doesn’t miss that look. Kevin is the slowest to speak, which Connor decides is fair, given his painfully devout childhood.  
“I mean, I might not be Mormon anymore, but I’m still not… quite well dispositioned towards.. homosexuals and otherwise not heterosexual people.” He chooses his words carefully, and Connor feels his first glimpse of hope shatter. It isn’t because of Kevin’s remarks, but instead it’s more that it’s so close to Connor’s own thoughts; the ones that forced him to lose Steve.  
“Kevin… Pleaaase?” Arnold pleads, dragging out the ‘a’ in ‘please.’  
Kevin frowns. “Can we give it a bit more time? I’m still getting used to this,” he signals to himself, “Atheist thing.”  
Connor nods.  
“Same, but for me it’s mainly the impending excommunication. I still believe in God. I think” He falters when he notices the others’ shocked faces. He realises he forgot to tell the district. Oops.  
“What? We’re getting excommunicated?” Elder Davis’s voice is quiet, as if he’s still processing this new information. Connor nods solemnly.  
“I thought you said you sorted things out though?” Arnold glances at the others, a look of melancholy on his face.  
“I thought I did, but my d- someone called the mission president and demanded they do something about us. I guess I just.. forgot to tell you guys.” Connor is on the border of lying now. He may have forgotten, but he’s also been putting this off, as it would highlight his personal failure as a leader, friend, and most importantly, son.  
“Wh- what? Connor, what? We’re getting ex-communicated? Why didn’t you tell us? Connor, why didn’t you tell us? I thought.. I thought we were close, but apparently not. And now, and now you go and do this! God, Connor. Thanks for the heads-up. I’m sure my parents will be ecstatic to see me again. At least you- you still have your parents, somewhere to go back to. But we don’t.” He signals to the other elders. “So could you please tell us when our lives are about to be ruined?!” He screams the last part. His normally pale face is now pastel pink. He reaches for Connor, but Arnold pulls him back.  
“Hey buddy, calm down. We’ll figure something out, okay?” Arnold mumbles to Kevin. The smaller boy rests his head into his companion’s lap. Arnold leans down and whispers something into Kevin’s ear, and Connor can tell they’re talking about him. Elder Davis is white as a sheet, and a muffled sob leaks out of him. Tears suddenly start streaming down his face. That’s when Connor fully takes in what he’s done. Elder Davis never cries. He resolves himself to stay, instead of run as his entire body is aching him to.  
“I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t realise, and at the time, I was still processing it, and-“ Word vomit erupts out of him. “I should have never picked up that phone. We could all be so much better off. But I did, and I messed up, and I know that. I hope you can find it in your heart of hearts to forgive me.” And now he’s crying too, his cheeks shining with tears and his hands trembling. This is easily Connor McKinley’s worst moment, but with the others, it feels a tiny bit better, if that accounts for anything.  
“Fuck you McKinley.” Kevin says, his voice falsely calm over a maelstrom of anger.  
“Connor didn’t mean it, did he?” Arnold looks down at Kevin and strokes his hair.  
“I genuinely, honest to God, forgot.”  
“How do you forget something like that?” Elder Davis whispers, gasping for breath.  
“Fourteen cups of coffee and a panic attack, I guess.” Connor shrugs, trying to lighten up the mood.  
“It was you who drank all my coffee?”  
“Yeah.”  
He knows he has to tell everyone else, but he puts that thought away and crawls over to hug Elder Davis, tears silently streaming down both of their faces.  
“I’m so sorry.”  
“Sorry doesn’t do anything.”  
“I know.”  
~•~•~  
Connor almost forgets about their ex-communication for the next few days, almost. He doesn’t think he really can, but he throws himself into his work, keeps his head down and remains silent. Too quiet, so much it becomes uncharacteristic of him. This made the other elders suspicious, however well-conditioned they are to his dreams and his episodes. No one’s ever seen him be so outwardly quiet and philosophical. He tries his best to stop the noises in his head. He’s stopped ballet again, mainly out of fear that he may be discovered doing a pirouette by Elder Michaels, Arnold, or God forbid Elder Price. He knows that he has to tell the other missionaries about this… this new event. He can’t find the energy within himself to. He will eventually. Just not today. Maybe tomorrow. Arnold, much to his chagrin, is egging him on to tell the others. It appears that he’s told Nabulungi, who sits Connor down one day and starts braiding a flower crown for him.  
“What is it with you and lying?”  
Connor shrugs nonchalantly, picking at the sparse sprouts of grass around them.  
“What do you mean?”  
“There it is again, Elder McKinley. You lie a lot.”  
“I don’t lie.” Connor laughs, amused at the very prospect. A devout (not really) Mormon (barely) missionary (not anymore) who lies? Gosh, he may be a failure, but he isn’t Arnold. Nabulungi’s face blossoms into the very hint of a smile, where she smiles with her eyes but not her mouth.  
“God, Elder McKinley, you are so fucking dumb. You definitely lie.” She says, stretching out the ‘definitely’.  
“Okay, maybe I’ve lied once.”  
Nabulungi smirks, setting down the flower crown. (With some twigs and grass, there aren’t many flowers with long enough stems in the village.)  
“Arnold talks about you. They all do, actually. Those white boys care a lot, especially when it comes to the great Elder McKinley.”  
Connor frowns, putting the tip of his finger onto his chin.  
“Stop lying, Naba. God, you have the audacity to come here and tell me I’m lying? Hypocrite.” He jokes, pinching Nabulungi on her arm.  
“Consider using your brain for once, Elder McKinley. Why else do you think they look at you like that?”  
“Like what?”  
“Like they’re a push away from shipping you back to Sal Tlay Ka Siti and into a doctor’s office.”  
Connor hesitates before speaking.  
“They don’t do that.”  
“They so do.” Naba pouts, her bottom lip barely sticking out. “They’re worried about you. Is it that hard to consider people might like you because you’re a semi-bearable person and not because you’re their district leader?”  
Connor throws his head back and laughs, truly laughs.  
“Maybe it is.”  
“Stupid boy.” Naba’s laughing too now, as she continues work on the flower crown. “All done.”  
She places the flower crown onto Connor’s bright red hair. It sits, slightly unevenly, on a mess of unbrushed curls and waves.  
“You’re the king of the fairies now.” Naba states matter-of-factly. Connor stands up and curtsies.  
“Thank you for coronating me.”  
“Jesus, Elder McKinley. Haven’t you got work to do?”  
“I’m meant to be working on the garden.” He looks at James and Kevin in the distance, the latter of whom is lugging a pole with clearly wet paint. “I’d rather not though, and as the district leader, I make the rules. They say I don’t have to.”  
“Sure they do, McKinley. Sure they do.”  
“You’ll be laughing when I decide you’re excommunicated from the Church of Arnold!”  
Naba giggles warmly and starts skipping away, satisfied by this turn of events. Connor is grinning ear-to-ear, and Electricity from Billy Elliot is stuck in his head for the rest of the day.  
~•~•~  
The flower crown stays on his drawer for a whole three days, but Connor soon comes back to his senses and decides it’s too feminine to be displayed in such a brash manner like that. So, he places it in a box, which he hides under his bed. There, all gone.  
~•~•~  
He lives, day to day, floating in the ghost of his former self. To say ‘live’ may be a bit much, actually. He’s found himself distant from Poptarts and James, instead opting to work as a lone wolf. Poptarts’ words ring true. _always leave others to pick up the mess_  
He runs away from his problem, then floats from day to day, then runs some more, terrified to face the truth. Ex-communication. Gosh, even that word seemed horrible. Former communication? From who? He knew who. From his mom, dad, Elijah, Lily, Oscar, Ethan, John and Amanda. He was second oldest, leaving his 4 younger siblings in the dark as to why this strange, ginger-haired, bright blue eyed man was claiming to be their brother. That was if he ever even came back, shit. He supposes he can swear now that he won’t even be part of the Church. He snaps back to reality. Kevin sits next to him, awkwardly trying not to touch him. Oh. Yeah. Kevin Price, who probably looks at him weirdly. Kevin’s had the worst of it, of Connor running, both figuratively and literally.  
“So.”  
“So.”  
“Do you wanna talk?”  
“About what?”  
“The weather’s nice.”  
“Really? Weather talk? I thought we were beyond that stage.”  
“You’re right. I propose a new topic change: Our excommunication.”  
“No.” Kevin flatly denies.  
“Fine. I’ll have to talk about the hard stuff then.”  
Kevin perks up. “Alcohol?”  
“God, sometimes I actually think you’re an alcoholic.” Connor pretends the chill up his spine isn’t there when Kevin shrugs.  
“You know,” Connor signals to everything. “You can talk to me. The excommunication, the- uh… me being a freaking weirdo. I know it’s been hard.” He isn’t able to drop the f-word.  
“There’s nothing to talk about. You made a mistake. You apologised. You were uncomfortable. You ran away.”  
“Y-yes, but- but how did that make you feel?”  
“Fucking shitty, that’s what.” He laughs coldly, with no humour.  
Connor is persistent.  
“And- and what happened that night at 3am? You don’t seem to be awake at those times very often.”  
Kevin exhales harshly, and Connor knows he’s hit the jackpot.  
“Do you really want to know?”  
Connor nods.  
“Okay.. I- I still haven’t had anything from my parents. But you know who did?”  
Connor points at himself, and Kevin laughs.  
“No, no. Not you. Arnold. While you were on the garden, he got a care package from his mom. His dad hates him, but his mom seems mostly okay— anyway. It… It had everything. American candies, Star Wars merchandise… shit. It was more than anything my parents had ever given me. And it was so unfair, God… at least your parents still talk to you. I’d kill for that.”  
“You wouldn’t if you heard what they said.”  
“I miss them. They’re awful and manipulative but they’re my parents. But… but they don’t care about me.”  
Connor motions for the taller boy to continue his story.  
“So, you know what I did? I prayed. I prayed, Connor. I picked up that fucking book and studied it so maybe Heavenly Who-ever-the-Hell could get my parents to talk to me, to goddamn acknowledge me. To give me my family back.” His long, golden-brown eyelashes flutter with the hint of tears. “Then, then, Connor, I realised that- that I was fucking stupid to do that. And- and suddenly couldn’t breathe and everything hurt. My head hurt and I- I wanted to die, Connor.”  
Connor weakly nods, sick.  
“I took some alcohol. Some beer, from Naba’s 19th birthday. And, I used those painkillers Gotswana gave me for- for when I sprained my ankle running from Gen- gen…” A droplet of water runs down his cheek. He stares blankly at his hands. “When he killed uhm…”  
Connor doesn’t need further elaboration to understand.  
“And I wanted to die, Connor. So I took them. Together. I took them together.” He stumbles over his words, a lump clearly in his throat. “But that didn’t help because that gnawing hole was still there. So, I stumbled downstairs to get some coffee. I found you.”  
“Oh Kevin… Kevin, Kevin, Kevin.”  
“I’m going to die alone, Connor. I’m going to die unloved and- and I’ll go to Hell.”  
“No. No, you won’t.”  
That’s bullshit. And where am I even going to go after the mission? I can’t go home, and I highly doubt I want to sleep on the streets.”  
Connor knows he shouldn’t promise, shouldn’t hope, but still does.  
“You can stay with me.”  
“No. How would we even find a house?”  
Connor is careful to choose his words.  
“We can live in a shitty apartment. I can be a barista who auditions for Broadway, and you can be..”  
“A teacher.”  
“A teacher. Kevin and Connor, teacher and actor.”  
“Make me jealous. Talk to me about your nuclear family.”  
“There really isn’t that much to speak about. They hate me. It doesn’t matter. They might even hate me more than yours do you.”  
Annoyance flickers across Kevin’s face, lingering just long enough for Connor to see.  
“Cool. What did they do, Connor?”  
The question is pointed, but veiled behind a smirk.  
“Yell at me.”  
“So they raised their voice? And that was life-shattering?”  
“I suppose so.” Connor decides to play it cool and looks down.  
“You know what’s worse than yelling? Silence. Stony, cold silence. Where they’re so ashamed they don’t even want to acknowledge they made a fucked up creation like- like me.”  
Connor then does something stupid. He cups Kevin’s cheek and wipes a tear away.  
“You- you are not fucked up.” He whispers.  
“Then what am I? I don’t have family or friends, and there’s probably not even a plant out there that gives a shit about me.”  
“Hush… I sometimes think that too… but we just have to remember that we’ll be okay.”  
“Okay my ass.”  
Kevin finally breaks and chokes back a sob, cupping his hand over his mouth and squeezing his eyes shut, and gosh, Connor can’t blame him. The shorter boy awkwardly removes his hand from Kevin’s cheek, and misses the feeling almost immediately.  
The two sit in silence for a long, long time, and that night, Connor dreams of dusty ballet shoes and old, cheap apartments.  
~•~•~  
Why does Connor have to be alive, at this moment, right now? Why does he have to be born Mormon and be sent to Uganda? He ponders these questions daily as he continues floating, floating, floating. His eyes are to the ground while his words drift above in a shiny red, Uganda-shaped balloon. He wants to be solidly planted on the ground, but is too scared to do so. Breathing is excruciating, and he finds himself suffocating under the weight of his own pressure day after day. He thinks over Steve, and the flower crown, and feels panic rise, until he calms it again.  
He delicately cuts a tomato, whistling to ‘Mozart Sonata in D’. He flies alone now. He’s hit rock bottom and made his bed there. The only issue is, his bed is a cracking glass sheet and what lies below is a pull to madness. Maybe he’s already mad. Regardless, it’s hard to tell.  
~•~•~  
“You can’t catch me!”  
A squeal of laughter erupted into the air as James desperately tried to push Connor’s mom away, who was busy tickling him.  
“Are you sure about that, James?”  
Six-year old Connor makes grabby hands at his best friend, who is put down with a snort of glee. Connor taps him.  
“You’re it.”  
James taps him back.  
“Never said no take-backs!”  
“Uh-uh.”  
“Uh-yes!”  
The two fall down, their hands spotted with the smallest hints of dirt. Connor takes James’s hand, significantly more dusty than his, and rubs it, hard, still all the grime has come off.  
“Connorrrrr, that hurts…” James mock-complains, tugging at the older boy’s bright red hair. “Your hair is weird. It’s like fire, but it doesn’t burn you.”  
“Your hair’s weird. It’s the same colour as your hands. Dusty.”  
“Yeah, but you’re the only person in the world who has that hair colour! Maybe the only thing ever to have that colour at all!”  
“I’m sure there are colours similar to my hair.”  
“What’s something you’re really, really looking forward to?” James pats the grass next to him, and Connor sits there. The two are silent for a moment, while they gaze up at the clouds and think about how it’s only them in that small world that takes up their mind.  
“My mission. I want to go to Australia and see people ride kangaroos to school!”  
“I want to go to France and see my granny and grandpa.”  
“Ugh, France is so much cooler than Australia!” Connor laughs, picking at the grass. They hear Connor’s mom call.  
“Connor, James! Cake is ready!”  
The two boys run inside, as fast as little six year olds can run.  
“Look Connor! It’s carrot cake! That looks just like your hair!”  
“No it doesn’t.”  
“Yes it does. Mrs McKinley, does that look like Connor’s hair?”  
The two boys glance at Connor’s mom, who’s stifling back a laugh.  
“I suppose it does, yes.”  
“Then it’s settled. Your name is Carrot-cake now!”  
Carrot-cake. Connor could get used to that.


	2. a shame to be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor’s been— he’s been fine. He takes security in routine, forces little challenges onto himself for the dullest version of variety one can offer. He has friends and responsibilities and only has to think about the future once every three days. That doesn’t mean things can’t be better though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so i almost forgot to post today but oh well. The next part will feature more Kevin!

At one point, Connor finally snaps. He stops drifting, stops dreaming. A part of him shrivels up and dies, the way it did when he quit ballet, or lost Steve. He wakes up one night with the chilling knowledge that he had a Hell dream, and, deciding the room is too uncomfortable, meanders outside. He needs to breathe, he decides. Give him some space. He’s needed a lot of space lately. He is hit with a warm breeze, which is nice, as his heart has been frozen solid after hit after hit. He sits and waits, staring up at the stars the way he and James did when they were six. The way he and Steve did when they were 11, before Steve-  
Before Steve jumped.  
Connor carefully decides not to think about that, about the whirling of events that transpired before that. He focuses on his feet instead, gets up and finds himself walking to the garden. He doesn’t really find himself. He’ll never find himself.  
He sits against a pole. To say he doesn’t care is unfactual. To say he doesn’t want to care is concerning. Caring is a strange subset of being. To be, you must care, and to care means to love. Hence, to be must mean to love.  
The Ancient Greeks said there were four types of love. Philia, the love of one’s friends. His love for James, and later Poptarts. Storge, the love of one’s family. Kevin’s love, or want would be a better way to put it, of his parents. Agape, the love of all humankind. That was what caused Naba to welcome all the ‘weird white boys’ into her village, and subsequently, her heart. And eros, the romantic love that drove you into a frenzy. Like they way Arnold and Naba love each other, or-  
Or how Steve and Connor loved each other, so long ago.  
He forces that thought out of his mind, and resolves to remain calm. He sits there and waits, tapping his finger pads onto his thumb, one, two, three, four. He doesn’t like thinking anymore. Thinking always leaves him more lost than found, it seems. He looks at the garden. James put up a campfire a few days ago. And, just for the tiniest sliver of time, Connor considers how painful it would be to set himself ablaze.  
Too painful, his brain tells him. And, for once, he listens.  
He settles for sitting on the log next to the fireplace, tossed haphazardly by Arnold. It was the first of many, and it gave a homely feel to the otherwise bland garden. Of course, Connor being Connor, had argued that there was no point to a campfire, but Poptarts, James, Kevin and Arnold had all ganged up on him, pressuring him to say yes. God, those assholes. 

After some time, he finally lets himself think about his parents. They wouldn’t be happy to see him back. It was like his dad was actively trying to ruin his life. His mom had been silent. Elijah would have jeered him, but the two were never close anyway. He doesn’t think he can go back to Ohio after this. Too traumatic. He doesn’t know how’d he react, he only knows that he’s a different Connor McKinley now. He has darker hair, more auburn than ginger now. He doesn’t exactly tan, unlike Kevin or James, instead burning. He’d have all kinds of scratches and bruises, ones that his mom would have tutted at and told him to pray more for. He can’t go home. He can’t go home- he can’t go home. He’d be hated and hurt and shunned. He can’t go home.

The next day, Connor McKinley hesitantly looks under his bed. There are two cardboard boxes there. He reluctantly reaches out for the larger one, unable to think. He knows what he’s doing is wrong, but he can’t change. People on the path to sin can’t change, can they? He supposes not, and opens the box before he can go back.  
_this is a bad idea._  
_i don’t care._  
The box is rather simple, a tone of gray-brown. It feels like an E melodic minor. He picks it up and inspects it, careful not to damage it. Inside are 8 garments of clothing and a note; ‘Turn it off!’ with a smiley face beside it. He frowns at it before staring, enraptured by the carefully put together pink vests in front of him. He himself had sewed them together. He borrowed Kimbay’s sewing machine and his mother’s skills, and made eight of them, one for each of the elders. He isn’t plagued by guilt for lying to Kevin, because he was going to throw them away. He couldn’t bring himself to, though. Maybe it was because he still sometimes turned it off, when things got especially bad. Things tend to get especially bad when you’re in one of the poorest parts of Uganda with no resources except seven boys who probably couldn’t recognise the smell of coffee before the Kevin incident. One of many incidents. It was just one of the more well-known ones. No one was allowed to know about Connor’s… incidents. They can never know that he’s a terrible person. And they can never know the swirling vortex of his mind, consuming everything it comes across. God, no. That would be awful. He’s kind of awful, isn’t he?  
He absent-mindedly hums his part in ‘Turn It Off’ to distract himself, without thinking of Steve, or his dreams. He skips over the part where he stutters and almost admits to having- to having dreams about Steve. He forces the box shut, as tight as it goes, and pushes it under the bed again.  
~•~•~  
“Asmeret recently gave birth to a boy. His name is Adisa. She wants us to visit her, maybe prepare for a baptism.” Elder Michaels announces to the group over breakfast.  
Connor smiles amidst the cheers. God knows Asmeret deserves some good in her life. Everyone here does, except for maybe him. Elder Michaels has always been the closest to Asmeret. Anyone with a basic understanding of emotions can see he likes her, whether it was always offering to make a trip if they stopped nearby her house, or buying baby things once he found out she was pregnant. At least Elder Michaels isn’t put off by the thought of a child.  
“Who wants to make the trip? I think we can all see that Elder Michaels here is crushing on her, so him, obviously. I guess I’ll also go. McKinley, wanna come?” Elder Davis calls out.  
He seems to have forgiven, or at least forgotten the incident regarding Connor. Connor nods gratefully, careful not to say anything. He’s taken extra care to not crack the delicate eggshells he’s been walking on these past few days. He’s been the slowest to speak and the fastest to think. Connor lives mezzo-piano now, just for now, in the intermission between Act One and Act Two, in that moment where he’s waiting to tell the others about the ex-communication.  
“We also need to pick up the mail.” Kevin mentions, mouth full of dry toast.  
“Do you and..” Connor scans around the other elders, most of whom are thoroughly engrossed in whatever conversation they’re having today. Poptarts’ ears seem to pick up at the mention of mail, and he not-so-subtly glances at Connor. The ginger sighs.  
“Poptarts, I’ll trust you this once. Do not spend any money on Poptarts. Or Oreos. Let’s just say no sugar. Kevin, you’re responsible for him.” Connor freezes. He isn’t supposed to call Kevin by his first name, not in front of all the other missionaries.

Connor learns that when you mess up, it isn’t like a movie. The world doesn’t stop spinning, not for even one second. No one stares at you, or laughs. Time doesn’t pass slowly. Melancholy music doesn’t play and your surroundings don’t become black and white.

“Cool. We’ll leave tomorrow morning, and be back by hopefully Friday.”  
Connor reaches into his pocket and fishes around for some coins. He pulls out two 20,000 notes, and gives them to Kevin and Poptarts.  
“Don’t waste them.”  
“This is barely anything!”  
“More reason to not waste it. It’s enough for the bus ride and for a hotel for one night.”  
Connor pretends he can’t hear Kevin’s sighs, and waves the two of them off. He pretends he doesn’t feel a small tug in his stomach seeing the two of them walk off, and he does it so flawlessly he’s almost able to convince himself it’s true. He neatly scrapes his plate free of crumbs and places it into the sink. He walks to his office and turns on his calculator. He never learned to do long division, and needs to calculate how much money they have left.  
He frowns at the calculator, the number coming up short of 300,000. Not enough to last a month. He writes down some figures and starts pacing around the room. If it even counts as a room, that is.. It’s dusty and exceptionally small, with a chipped wooden table in the very center. There are no decorations, except for a single dusty photo of Connor, age five, tiny foot pointed, his hands cautiously gripping the barre, body in an arabesque. He has an ecstatic grin of concentration, his tongue sticking out the tiniest bit. He hasn’t smiled that wide since. He’s surrounded by much older girls, seven years old or so, their hair in uniform buns and their eyes focused, elegant and not looking like seven year old girls at all. He stands out, black leotard and messy red hair barely brushed back, with small curls beginning to flutter up to their natural position. The photo is grainy and old, taken on a Polaroid. He couldn’t bring himself to throw it away, instead letting it sit on his desk, where it gathers dust now. The rest of his desk is littered with papers and forms.  
_Adagio means slow, moving._  
He picks up a soft pink file, flicks through it. His eyes follow the text, but his head doesn’t.  
“Yearly funds: 600,000 Ugandan shillings. Twenty-five percent is to go to food, ten percent to bills.” He reads on until he finishes the list, and spends the rest of the day thinking.  
~•~•~  
The hut is strange without Kevin, Connor thinks as he packs a draft of the Book of Arnold. He strolls to the door, where Elder Davis and Elder Michaels are waiting.  
“Sunscreen?” He offers out a pump to the other missionaries, and forgets to put any on himself.  
They walk out in amicable silence, until they reach Asmeret’s house. Connor knocks on the door, one, two, three.  
“Hello Asmeret! I’m Elder McKinley of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. These are Elder Michaels and Elder Davis.”  
He uses the most professional, distant tone he can manage.  
“Will! I didn’t know you were coming. Hi Connor, Isaiah.” Asmeret warmly welcomes the three missionaries, making Connor self-consciously look down. He shouldn’t have been so business-like. Elder Michaels hugs the slightly older woman. The three are lead in.  
“I didn’t know your name was Will.” Connor mentions to Elder Michaels.  
“Well, it’s not like I know all the missionaries’ first names either.” Elder Michaels says with a shrug. Connor smiles as they see baby Adisa.  
“Hello Adisa! Peekaboo!” Connor baby-talks when he sees the small figure. He has much paler skin than his mother’s and large, brown eyes. Like Kevin’s, he supposes. He blinks twice, slowly, before closing his eyes, so unaware of the world.  
“This is Adisa. He’s three days old, and I thought you would want to meet him.” Asmeret chuckles, signalling to Elder Michaels, who is thoroughly enraptured by the tiny vessel of life before them.  
“Elder Michaels mentioned you wanting to baptise him?” Elder Davis says, holding the baby’s tiny hand.  
“Yeah. When can we have him baptised?”  
“I think we should wait a few months, until he’s old enough to sit up, maybe.” Connor chooses his words carefully, as he always does. Asmeret nods and smiles at her small bundle.  
“Asmeret, we should have a party!” Elder Davis’s eyes glow with anticipation.  
Asmeret smiles.  
“Sure! Although, I can’t really plan it, given that Adisa is a thing.” She jokes, but she looks down at Adisa like he’s her whole life.  
“We can do it! Right, Will?” Connor offers. He likes parties, probably too much.  
“Thank you. I assume I can just contact Will when he’s a bit older for the baptism?”  
Connor grins.  
“By all means, yes!”  
Connor notices the proud smile Elder Michaels wears, but decides not to comment.  
“I’ve actually been making some posho, do you want some?” Asmeret smiles as she hums to herself.

 

By the time they leave, the sun is almost down, and Connor has decided Uganda is just as good as America.  
~•~•~  
As night ultimately always becomes day, he starts to understand the truth. And he realises, he does probably have to talk. Not about the garden, or the weather, but instead about little things. The things that actually matter. Like the way Poptarts smiles head to toe when he makes James laugh, or the way Arnold looks down and blushes every time he catches Naba looking at him. Or- or the way Kevin seems visibly uncomfortable whenever he sees the Book of Mormon. Maybe that last one wasn’t as happy, but God knows it still exists. And, maybe that’s the point. Sometimes, you don’t really get everything you want in a neat little package of good and bad things, no matter how much you deserve or fight for it. But, there’s always another side, one he’s scared to admit to. It’s not ironed and pressed or bright and happy, but instead a mess. It’s a tangle of feelings, a stab of love and hatred and it’s Steve and the Drowsy Chaperone and the Hunger Games. And, as always, he runs and hides from it. He supposes that his entire life has been based on running. When he stops, it’s like the whole world catches up to him and hits him, hard. He sits on the couch again, deja vu invading his limbs and trickling up, numbing his body. He sees Kevin walk around the corner. Well, what seems to remain of him. Messy, sleep-deprived Kevin with bags under his eyes and tears rolling down his cheeks. He sits in silence next to Connor, almost drifting off, but seeming to catch himself at the last moment. Every time this happens, he looks around, slightly bewildered.  
“Hi.”  
“Hey Connor. Are you always up at this time?”  
Connor smiles wryly.  
“I suppose so.”  
“I wasn’t really looking for someone to talk to. Family bonding time, I guess.”  
“I- I can leave if you want.”  
Connor stands up to leave, but feels Kevin grab his arm and pull him back. He was strangely strong.  
“Stay.”  
“Fine.”  
More silence.  
“What’s something you’ve never told anyone before?” Kevin sighs, starting to drift off again.  
Connor frowns.  
“I’m really not sure.”  
Kevin rubs his cheek against Connor’s shoulder, much like a cat would. And, for once, Connor is too tired to react. He strokes the younger boy’s hair.  
“Liar.”  
“Maybe so. How about you?”  
“Me what?”  
“What’s something you’ve never told anyone?”  
“I love Uganda. And I never, ever want to leave. Especially not back to fucking America.” He whispers, dazed.  
“I know that already.”  
Connor pushes Kevin up off his shoulder. Kevin blinks slowly, slightly drowsy, his eyes amber in the warm candlelight. Connor walks to the pantry, pulling out a orange jar of pills. He take one out and waits. Gotswana had prescribed then to him, so long ago now. He never used them. Medicine was for lunatics, his parents had taught him. It was on nights like these he wanted to take them though. He absent-mindedly rolls the small pill in between his fingers. And, after such a long silence it slowly verged on the border of awkwardness, he speaks.  
“My… therapist told me that… so he knew I really liked music. So, uhm… he told me that my alternate thoughts, to put it,” He chuckles without humour. “It’s like the Circle of Fifths. Do you know what that is?”  
“Is it like the Circle of Life?”  
Kevin hums the song to himself, desperate to relieve the tension between the pair.  
“Gosh, no!” Connor laughs and hits Kevin on the shoulder. “Like… relative keys. F Major and D Minor, I guess. They’re pretty much the same, but all that matters is the way you hear it, that changes the entire key. It was like that with my- my thoughts. It was intruding on my life, and he said that I could stop if… if I turned my D minor into a F major. Do you get it?”  
Kevin nods responsibly, his puppy-dog eyes helplessly confused.  
“You don’t get it, do you?”  
“No. Not really. What do you mean by therapist?”  
“To make me a better Mormon.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Like… for my thoughts, Kevin.”  
Kevin takes a second before his eyes grow wide and he looks down.  
“Oh.”  
“Yeah.”  
“I’m- I’m so sorry.”  
“Everyone’s sorry.” He feels a hint of anger rush up to him, and he tries his best to calm it down, but to no avail. “Everyone’s so fucking sorry, but they never consider my thoughts. They never consider if it actually helped me, fixed me. And, and it did. It fixed me, because I’m no longer a screw-up. I’m finally fucking normal, after so long. God doesn’t hate me anymore. Why doesn’t anyone get that? God doesn’t hate me.” He stops and takes a breath.  
Kevin grabs Connor’s arm again.  
“Breathe. It’s not your fault, okay? You were raised up terribly, and it’s not your fault.”  
“It’s my fault, stop lying. I was tempted by sin and now everything is ruined. Kev.. everything is ruined. My family doesn’t want me. At all. Kevin… I’m straight, okay?”  
“Connor, look at me. Hit me, yell, whatever. It’s okay. Just- let it out.” He strokes Connor’s arm, and the older boy seems to relax slightly.  
“I’m really sorry.”  
“Shush.. There’s no reason to be.”  
“You know, I missed you. How was the trip?” Connor mentally kicks himself for forgetting to check the mail.  
“It was lovely, as always. I was correct in saying the money wasn’t enough though.” Kevin laughs, and Connor feels a tug again in his chest again.  
The two stay there until Connor falls asleep, upon which point Kevin gets a blanket, tucks him in tight and walks away. Connor has a nice sleep for the first time in years.  
~•~•~  
Connor frowns as he looks at James, whose tongue is slightly sticking out as he digs at the dirt. There’s a smudge of dusty brown on his right cheek, which is ever so irritating to Connor. He forces himself to look down and continue watering the new sprouts. He’s found that he and Kevin don’t particularly talk about that night, or any nights in particular. The thing is, he’s itching with questions. Questions about many things, actually, ranging from the future to the past. He used to put off these thoughts, so long ago, but now with his impending ex-communication, he can’t help but feel hopeless about it all.  
“James.” He signals to taller boy.  
“Carrot-cake?”  
Connor looks at him and tilts his head slightly, before licking his finger and pressing hard into James’ right cheek.  
“You had dirt on there.”  
“What if it was intentional?”  
Connor smiles slightly, waves him off and continues watering the same tomato plant he’s watered for the past few minutes. If he could think, he’d realise he’s killing the poor thing, but as he doesn’t, he just stares warily off into the distance. Could there ever be a future where none of them are constantly fighting for their lives, where romances were long and straight and religion was a background subject? Connor supposes that this is how things were always meant to go down, but he still can’t help but feel a little empty inside. He realises he’s already watered the tomato plant and blushes, awkwardly moving onto the next. He steals a glance at Kevin and James, making sure no one’s seen his mistake, and walks over to help Kevin.  
“What are you doing?”  
“Trying to get this fucking pole in place. Someone knocked it over.”  
Connor falters for a second and remembers his outing in the night. Even though he knows Kevin has no idea it was him, he still feels somewhat bound, maybe by God or whoever exists out there, to put the pole back.  
“Here, I’ll help.”  
The two push the pole up, and Connor remembers when he and James did that. It was just two months ago, but it feels like years now.  
“Thanks.”  
“Anytime.”  
Kevin leans in to Connor, so close that Connor can feel his breath on his face.  
“You know, there’s a letter for you back at the hut.” He whispers conspiratorially.  
“I’ll check it out.” Connor replies passionately.  
“It mustn’t be good news, it looked very formal.”  
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”  
Connor knows what the letter must consist of, but he doesn’t really care, and besides, he’s enjoying this intense banter with Kevin. The two look away from each other and resume doing their own separate work.  
~•~•~  
“Elder McKinley! There’s a letter here for you!” Poptarts’ ringing voice invades the silence of the small mission hut.  
Connor peeks his head out of the door of his office.  
“Pass.”  
“Con, you’ve been in your office for the entire day. Come out!”  
“Pass it, jerk.”  
Poptarts sighs and tosses the envelope onto the staircase.  
“Come out to get it.”  
Connor, having finally resigned himself to losing to Poptarts, walks out and collects the letter.

Connor McKinley  
District 9 Mission Hut  
Kampala, Uganda  
00256

Connor inspects the freshly-slated white envelope. He takes it back to his office. His red hair is wispy on his head, as he just took a shower. Poptarts is right, he thinks. He hasn’t come out the entire day, not after he left the garden with Kevin and James. He knows it’s less painful to just rip off the bandaid, so he opens up the envelope quickly and painlessly. Before he can read it, he hears Poptarts knock on his door with his three controlled raps and one tap.  
“Hey Carrot-cake. It seems to be pretty formal.”  
Connor sighs, much to Poptarts’ confusion.  
“Can we not do this here right now?”  
“Do what?”  
“You being here?”  
Poptarts pulls a face.  
“As your second-in-command, aren’t I meant to be here?”  
Connor smiles sullenly.  
“Whoever made you second-in-command?” He decides that Poptarts will never leave unless he reads out the letter.  
“To Elder Connor McKinley, district leader of the District Nine Ugandan Mission,  
We regret to inform you that your district has been shut down. Your missionaries are all no longer members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints…” Connor can’t bring himself to read any more and sets the letter down onto the table.  
“Wait, Con? What?”  
Connor tearfully rests his chin on his hand.  
“There you go. This has been a long time coming, Chris. I’m sorry.”  
“Did you know about this?”  
Connor can only manage a weak nod.  
“And you never told any of us?”  
“I accidentally told Elder Davis, Elder Cunningham and Kevin before.”  
“Connor, look at me.” Poptarts lifts up Connor’s chin to match the shorter boy’s stare. “You may think we’re mad at you, but we all knew this would happen. It’s okay Con. You had no say in it at all. It isn’t your fault, oh my God.”  
“I guess I have to tell the others.” Connor can’t acknowledge Poptarts’ speech. God, how did he ever deserve Poptarts?  
“Con- wait!”  
Connor walks out in his distressed dark grey hoodie.  
~•~•~  
Day passes by day. Connor is hurt and confused, and he doesn’t acknowledge the ex-communication. Not to Poptarts, not to Kevin, not to anyone.  
“Hey. Are you okay?” James nudges him.  
“Yeah.”  
“Good. I thought you’d died, Connor. God, if that happened, who would do our maths for us?”  
Connor manages a smile as Poptarts leans over the table to hit James.  
“Arnold, what the fuck is this? It tastes like rat shit.” Kevin makes a face and Arnold giggles, and it makes Connor feel normal again.  
“I love Nutella, but I’ll admit. She’s vastly overestimated her cooking abilities.” On a good day, Arnold got Nabulungi’s name right eight out of ten times. It’s not like he didn’t get enough practice. Connor estimated he would go on about ten spiels a day about his girlfriend.  
“God Kevin. Some of us are still Mormons, y’know.” Connor chimes in. He doesn’t miss Poptarts’ smirk.  
“Sure we are, Connor. Sure.” Kevin sighs into his mashed yam.  
Connor doesn’t know what to say, for possibly the first time in his life, so he sings to himself.  
_I dreamed a dream in time gone by_  
_When hope was high and life worth living_  
_I dreamt that love would never die_  
_I dreamt that God would be forgiving_  
And, to his credit, Elder Neely starts humming along.

The other elders look at the pair in silence, but they honestly can’t care less. Steve would have sung along, Connor knows. Steve would have told the others about their excommunication in a heartbeat. He would have calmed Connor down and said ‘Hey, it’s okay.’ If he was here, this mess would have never happened. Connor knows it’s his fault Steve is gone. Steve was so happy, until Connor became friends with Zac. He was taller, with dark hair and even darker eyes. He didn’t like to think about that part of his life. He had turned slurs into a part of his every day vocabulary. He had laughed and mocked Steve and- and well, he knew what came roughly a year later. He wasn’t even invited to the funeral. That was fair enough, he knew. But he still felt like he had been wronged, somehow. He never even told his parents. They had to find out through the school newsletter.  
He feels a soft, suffocating material crush him.  
“Connor, that wasn’t me. That was Elder Davis.” Kevin looks away, his hand covered in yam mash. Connor smiles, and even though he knows he shouldn’t, picks out some of his and tosses it at Kevin. Now, he’s never been good in Physical Education, but he’s always been athletic due to dance. The mash hits Kevin square on his shoulder.  
“Fuck you, McKinley.”  
“Fuck you too, Price.”  
The two share a glance and Connor feels himself grow hot.  
“Guys.. can we not do this?” Elder Neely frowns, ever the downer.  
“You suck.” Elder Michaels laughs and tosses some yam mash at Elder Neely.  
Before they know it, a full out food fight begins.

Now, Connor is normally rather benevolent, he’d say. That was why he was appointed as District Leader, when there was a district to speak of. But he can also get competitive. We won’t go into detail as to what particular things he does for the sake of his dignity, but it’s safe to say that he wins.

Connor unabashedly grins at the rest of the missionaries, whose outfits were now caked with splashes of yam mash and gravy.  
“Connor!” Poptarts yells exasperatedly.  
“You okay there?” Connor taunts back.  
“Fuck.” Kevin mutters, scowling at his once neatly tucked-in shirt. He’s the only elder who still prides himself on his appearance.  
“Stop swearing.” The other elders chastise him all at once in different ways, joking.  
No, Connor really does feel alright now.  
~•~•~  
He stares at the piece of paper before him, debating whether to tell the other elders. James and Poptarts sit before him.  
“I mean, ultimately, it’s your call, Carrot-cake.” James states matter-of-factly. He leans back in his chair and starts blushing furiously when he almost topples over.  
“Ditto to what James said, but personally I think you value being good over being honest. Consider it, Con.”  
Connor frowns.  
“What do you two think I should do, though?”  
“Personally, I’d be irritated to be left in the dark, but I’m not sure how the others would react. Your interaction with Elders Price, Cunningham and Davis seemed to take the news really well.” James remarked sarcastically, raising an eyebrow.  
“Exactly. That’s why I don’t feel like telling them!”  
“Carrot.. I don’t think it’s an issue of how you feel. It’s more how they feel.” Poptarts bites his lip and fiddles with his hands.  
“I guess, but it still worries me.”  
He watches as James pulls on Chris’ curly hair, and smiles, satisfied, when it bounces back up.  
“None of us are really sure what we’re meant to be doing. Life is just winging it, isn’t it?” Poptarts comments as he watches James with a content look on his face.  
“I still wish there were a simple answer.”  
“I don’t think there ever will be, Connor.” James pokes Poptarts’ on the arm, and the blonde boy frumples and pokes back.  
Connor sighs and buries his head in his hands.  
“God, this is so complicated.”  
“It’s really not. Do what you feel is best, and we’ll always support you. We’re all friends here, Con.” Poptarts smiles, pulling away.  
“Best friends.” James corrects, grinning.  
Connor had said that to him so many years ago, and he had thought any reasonable person would have forgotten. He supposes James isn’t a reasonable person by very many means.  
“Yeah. We’re all best friends.”  
Then, he does something daring, and pulls Chris and James into a group hug.  
“So you’ve decided?” Poptarts asks curiously.  
“Not really. This just feels nice.”  
“Shit yeah, it does.” laughs James.  
In reality, Connor has decided. He decided a long time ago, actually. He’s just procrastinating.  
~•~•~  
The party is tomorrow, and Connor is tearing his hair out over what to wear. Of course, under any other situation, he would wear his Mormon missionary uniform. But he doesn’t think he can stomach the thought of pushing all that he is, everything that he’s become since getting to Uganda, into a neatly pressed shirt and a suffocating tie again. He’s finally, after months of work, become more than a nametag and a book, and he isn’t really sure he can go back. He stares at the rest of his wardrobe, consisting of two hoodies, (both stained with dirt, he really should get started in learning how to wash clothing,) shorts and a few long-sleeved t-shirts. He decides that a hoodie is far too hot to wear in the Ugandan weather, and instead settles for a baby pink flannel and his missionary trousers with no belt and old sneakers. To say he doesn’t feel a hint of annoyance when he finds himself gravitating towards the soft pastel top would be a lie, but he bites his lip and pushes it back. Everyone would be too drunk to notice anyway. He takes a deep breath and exits his room, pretending to not care about his missionaries’ reactions.

Connor drastically over-estimates the bearing his shirt has on his reputation, as the biggest reaction he gets is a nod from Poptarts and a smile from James. The two are sitting, sprawled over each other on a rug. Connor decides to leave those two alone and sits against the kitchen counter, unconsciously rubbing his left arm until it goes numb.  
“Nice shirt.”  
Kevin takes a seat next to Connor. He’s wearing an orange t-shirt and white shorts, with his golden-brown hair lightly combed and heavily gelled. Suddenly, Connor feels very over-dressed.  
“Is that sarcasm?”  
“I don’t do sarcasm, McKinley.”  
Connor manages a smile and punches Kevin.  
“I see you’re in a good mood, judging by how you’re actually touching people.” Kevin rolls his eyes and Connor pretends he doesn’t hear the younger boy say anything.  
“Are you excited?”  
“Well, I debated wearing my missionary uniform, and you know my opinion on the uniform, so I think you can tell.”  
“Even the name tag?” Connor decides to lightly mock the boy.  
“Nah, it wouldn’t be accurate anymore. I’m not an elder, and I’m certainly not part of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.”  
“I like you more without a name tag anyway.” Connor lightly rests his arm on Kevin’s leg, and is taken aback when Kevin puts his hand over the ginger’s arm.

“Is everyone ready to go?” Elder Michaels abruptly stands up, and Connor exhales a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, for Elder Michaels is wearing a collared striped shirt and a yellow tie.  
The other elders all say yes, and all exit out the door.  
“Ready to go, Kev?”  
“Shit, yeah.”

The walk to the town meeting place isn’t that long, but Connor has a skip in his heart the entire time the group walks there. Truth be told, he’s never gotten drunk before. Even after he was yelled at by the Mission President, he still never drank. He had seen what it did to James, how uncomfortable it had made him. He was debating drinking, when Kevin bursted in and told him about his experience taking painkillers with alcohol. He’s never truly built up the urge to find out what being drunk feels like, what never having to control what you say or what you do feels like. He doesn’t like the prospect of no control, but his brain seems to be forcing himself to get drunk today. He instantly sees a glass bottle of beer when he gets to the party, and feels James grab his arm.  
“You okay?”  
“Yeah.”  
The two continue moving. It’s still early, but Naba and Mafala have already gotten there, the overachievers they are. He gives a nod to Mafala and a hug to Nabulungi, the former of whom passes him some beer. He turns to James, before realising he isn’t there. He’s probably off with Poptarts, truth be told. Connor shrugs and takes the beer with a small ‘thank you.’ The flavour is bitter, and it tingles at his tongue, but he continues drinking, because there’s a little burn down his throat, and he likes that feeling. Even though it causes him pain. Or is it especially because it causes him pain? He tries to think, and, to his surprise, he’s actually rather clear-headed. He walks around trying to find Poptarts or Naba, but all his friends seem to be away. He feels slightly irritated, but that emotion is quickly washed over with loneliness and a hint of despair. He stumbles around, slightly awkwardly, his head to the ground. He notices Kevin sitting alone under a tree, and decides to join him. Connor doesn’t know why his body seems to always move near Kevin, but it’s fine by him.  
“Hey.”  
“Your face is red.”  
Connor frowns.  
“My face is not red.”  
“Is so.” Kevin is holding a bottle of beer too, Connor thinks. But he seems to already have drunk a bit? But he hasn’t finished his bottle yet?  
“This is my third bottle.”  
Shit, was he saying that out loud?  
“You’re very sensitive to alcohol, Connor.”  
Connor assumes that getting drunk teaches you things that you never expected to know about yourself before. Like, he’s a very clingy drunk. He grabs Kevin’s arm and tries to bat his eyelashes, to limited success.  
“Kevinnnn… can you get me some more beer?” He asks, stretching out the ‘N’ in ‘Kevin’.  
Kevin sighs and grabs Connor’s arm, pulling him up.  
“If James kills me, you’re to blame.”

Turns out, Connor can’t handle his alcohol very well. He chugs his fourth bottle, walking around. Kevin has long left him for Arnold. Goddamn, why does Kevin love Arnold more? Connor is just as good. He spots Poptarts near a tree and stumbles over.  
“Chris..”  
“Hey Connor- what the Hell?”  
Connor giggles, far louder than sober him would have ever tolerated.  
“You got drunk?”  
He nods dreamily, putting his arm around Poptarts.  
“Are you okay? God, James is coming back. I’m sure he won’t mind, but you know how he feels about-“ Poptarts signals at Connor. “This.”  
“I’m sure it will be fine.”  
“Do you even think, Connor? What the fuck?”  
“Are you mad at me?” The ginger feels his resolve melt down. “Don’t be mad, please?”  
Poptarts takes a deep breath, picking at a hangnail on his fourth finger.  
“No, I’m not. Be careful though. Alcohol is dangerous.”  
Connor’s lost focus, for he’s spotted Kevin and Arnold together.  
“Connor, did you hear what I said?”  
“What? Oh- uhm, yeah! Sure!”  
Poptarts sighs and dismisses Connor, waving him away. The older boy runs towards Kevin.

“Kevin..”  
“Oh! Hey!” Kevin laughs and waves, with his stupid perfect eyes and perfect teeth.  
“Can we go for a walk? It’s cold and it’s loud.” Connor picks at his flannel, suddenly regretting not bringing a jumper.  
“Yeah, what’s up?” Kevin takes Connor’s arm and walks with him outside.  
Connor shrugs.  
“Nice weather, isn’t it?” Kevin prompts.  
“Sure, yeah..” Connor begins to speak, but trails off.  
“Jesus Christ, how much have you had to drink?”  
“More than most people here.” He nonchalantly answers.  
“Connor McKinley, you’re so fucking weird. You go from being loud and happy, to depressed, to angry and silent, to trying to play it off as cool.” Kevin laughs, but Connor can clearly sense the hint of annoyance in his voice.  
The latter boy senses that Kevin’s speech requires a response, tries to piece together an answer, but really can’t. Suddenly, he’s speaking his thoughts. Out loud. To Kevin.  
“I like alcohol, Kev. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy and lets me act without analysing. I wish I could drink alcohol all the time.”  
“Connor, that’s called alcoholism.”  
“I wouldn’t be an alcoholic. I’d just drink a lot.” Connor tries to say, but the meaning is clearly lost on Kevin.  
“Any other disturbing thoughts you want to voice?”  
Connor nods.  
“Sometimes, I think I’m going insane, and I can’t handle it.”  
“Okay, you know what? No more alcohol for you. That’s it.”  
“Kevin! You can’t do that! As your district leader, I say you have to let me drink.”  
“This isn’t healthy, Connor. You clearly have some- some issues that need addressing, and I’m not going to let you become dependent on alcohol like Elder Church’s dad.”  
Mention of James makes Connor falter.  
“Wait- but.. yeah. Low blow, Kevin.”  
“It worked, didn’t it?”  
“It did, indeed.”  
Connor feels a sickly, tangy bile rise up his throat. It tears at his skin and itches ever so badly. He tries to breathe, and spews a hazel liquid over the ground.  
“Jesus, Connor!” Kevin sighs and runs as hand through his honeydip hair, laced with beads of sweat.  
“Sorry.” Connor meekly looks down.  
“Let’s just go. Come on, Poptarts is probably looking for you.”  
Connor sighs and trudges along with Kevin. Alcohol isn’t as fun as it seems, he decides.  
~•~•~  
Since when did getting drunk become so painful? Connor thinks. He’s awake, pink fleshy light budding through his closed eyes. Flashes of light seep in at different times, painful and distorted. He waits it out and tries to make sense of his surroundings. His head is elevated on a soft, pudgy material— his pillowcase. He’s on his bed. He shifts slightly and feels pain crawl up his spine. Then, warily, he opens his eyes.

Everything is on fire for a second. He wants to scream, but no sound comes out. Then, it’s over, leaving only a throbbing headache and the view of a crisp white ceiling. He shivers, despite not being cold, before realising the covers are tucked in tight over him. He doesn’t really remember anything about last night. He shakes his head and tries to sit up, but not before blinding flashes of light hit his eyes.  
“What the fuck.. ow…”  
“Connor?” Poptarts says. His voice seems blurry and distant.  
“Hi. Help.”  
The two get Connor standing up, grasping onto his bed for dear life. He hears a knock on the door. Shit, he has to make it down to breakfast, doesn’t he?  
“Come on. Follow me.”  
Poptarts pulls a hoodie over Connor’s frame. It would be a lie to say the blonde didn’t falter for a second, the ginger could feel that. He mentally slaps himself. Shit, his arm. Eventually though, he feels himself enveloped by the fabric. And, if Poptarts notices anything, he doesn’t mention it. Connor hugs himself for a second, relishing the warmth and about to fall asleep.  
“You can put on your pants by yourself, right?”  
Connor tries to nod and smile, but his body doesn’t agree with his mind and refuses to move. He shakily reaches out and grabs some shorts. One leg through, then the other. Since when did getting dressed take so much effort? He walks downstairs and stiffly sits at the table.  
“McKinley, you look like absolute shit.” Kevin is the first to comment.  
It’s not like he looks perfect anyway, Connor huffs. A curl of hair flops over his forehead, instead of being perfectly on top.  
“Fuck off, Price.” He picks at his dry toast. It’s the same breakfast every day, but it tastes especially invading today.  
“Hangover?” James passes him some water. “Hang on, I’ll get some aspirin. Stay here.”  
Great, now James knows Connor’s been drinking.  
The other elders are all at varying stages of pain, but Connor’s is easily the worst, having gotten blackout drunk the other night. He isn’t going to lie, even after Kevin banned him from alcohol, he still drunk a few more bottles. He feels a pill slip into his hands, and mumbles a thank-you. He dry swallows it, feeling it stick down his throat before going into his stomach. Everyone else slowly leaves the table, but he decides to wait there.  
“You alright? You look in pain.” James comments.  
“Sorry for drinking.”  
He sees James start.  
“Is that what you’re worried about? That’s not a huge issue, Connor. My past shouldn’t affect you. I’m just concerned for you.” He hugs the shorter boy, and Connor feels himself breathe again.  
“Great. Thanks.”  
“Just please, don’t get that drunk again. It’s not good for you, okay? You make us worried, Carrot-cake.”  
“Then, I’m doing my job.” Connor laughs and finishes the last bite of his toast.  
~•~•~  
Connor begins chopping vegetables with his eyes shut. Why he starts, he isn’t particularly sure. He prepares dinner one night, his fingers deftly slicing the small vegetables. He isn’t really doing, or thinking, much. He’s more focused on making sure his missionaries have something to eat. He’s almost halfway, when he challenges himself to slice a single carrot with his eyes shut. He doesn’t really consider it for a stretch of time, but then gives a ‘why not?’ and sets off. He manages to cut the carrot without any particular injuries. The slices are perfectly shaped, circular and small. He carries on doing this with an onion, then a yam. He doesn’t realise he’s cut himself until he opens his eyes, and realises dribbles of blood are dripping onto the yam. Shit. It can’t be that bad if he didn’t feel it, right? Connor sighs and washes the yam, but doesn’t bandage up his gash, bright red liquid now violently trickling down his finger. He washes his finger until there’s no more blood. Instead, he continues to cut the rest of the vegetables with his eyes closed. It proves a slight challenge, but each slice on his finger, each tearing of skin and cry of ‘Fuck!’ is more motivation for him to try harder. He hums a song and fries the food.

He doesn’t think anyone notices, until Poptarts, James and Kevin confront him a few days later.  
“Con, can we speak outside?” Kevin nudges him during a game of Pictionary.  
It’s Friday night, and the air is damp and rank. The group is holding a board game night. Connor sighs and follows Kevin out. He was winning at Pictionary.

“What’s up?” Connor asks the moment they exit the stuffy room.  
He vaguely sees Poptarts and James, the latter of who is dressed in a dark coat. It’s misty, however, and the fog envelopes the small group.  
“What happened to your hand?”  
Poptarts is the first to speak, gesturing at the scarring pink flesh.  
Connor chooses his words carefully.  
“I fell into one of those spiky bushes.”  
He hopes his lie is convincing enough.  
“Really? Those look pretty deep. I’ve fallen into them and my injuries have never scarred.” Kevin mutters, looking away.  
“Yeah, it was a- it was a pretty tough fall. I’m fine, though.”  
Poptarts sighs.  
“Do you get why we’re worried about you?” He grabs the short boy’s left arm and runs his fingers over it. Connor wants to vomit. Poptarts knows.  
“Not really.”  
“Carrot-cake, we’re really concerned. You’ve been acting strangely absent-mindedly these past few days.” James cautiously mumbles.  
“You’re worried?” The words hit Connor like a bag of bricks.  
“I suppose we are.  
“Well, I can assure you. There’s no need to be worried!” And, just in case anyone doubts him, Connor stupidly adds “If you ever feel worried, just turn it off!”  
Connor clearly sees the other men’s reaction, but cuts them off before they have a chance to speak.  
“Any actual topics of discussion for me?” He says condescendingly.  
“No. Go.” Kevin sighs and bids him goodnight.

Connor is about to walk back into the mission hut, but he really can’t face anyone. He takes a walk. The stars in Uganda are so different to those in Columbus. They’re prettier, for one. And there are more of them, multitudes of galaxies stretched out against the sky. He thinks about what comes next, and he isn’t particularly surprised when he can’t find an answer. He isn’t sure if his current situation is for forever, but he can’t imagine a future that isn’t like this. That’s kind of sad, he supposes. He thinks about the multiverse theory. If there are infinite universes, each with life on them, there would be one where none of this ever happened. Maybe he’d meet James at a playground, and Poptarts at a coffee shop. No, Kevin at a coffee shop. They wouldn’t even be Mormons. Kevin would be a cute barista who wrote down his number on Connor’s cup. He’d meet Poptarts as a roommate, but they’d eventually become friends. He’d be a ballerina, or on Broadway, or anything really. It’s a nice idea, a world where they didn’t meet in a rickety hut, and the sense of camaraderie was solely because death was always on the horizon. He still can’t seem to get over the fact that Poptarts knows. Connor frowns and runs his fingers over his left arm until they become numb and tingly. Connor walks for a while, his head stared down at his own two feet, before he realises that he’s lost. His futile attempt to find the mission hut brings up nothing, and he’s about to go to another house to maybe ask if he could stay for a night, when he realises he’s left the village. Fuck, of course. Now he’s out in the open and probably going to die, solely because he’s so stupid. No one will find his body and there will be no funeral. If there is, no one he loves will come. Kevin will forget him. Shit, how did he fuck up so bad?

Connor finds a small bush and lies down in it. It’s exceedingly uncomfortable, and the leaves prickle and tear at his legs. Why did he wear shorts today, of all days? The cuts on his hand are painful and an extremely sharp branch is re-opening the red, tender, barely healed skin. Oh well. It’s better than being eaten by a lion, he reminds himself. He manoeuvres his hoodie over his head and tries to sleep. He can’t that night. He could walk out and walk around, or try to find the hut, but the idea of being scratched by the branches further, with no one there to hear him, terrified him. He stays put, his breath ragged and shaky and his legs painfully cut.  
~•~•~  
Warmth seeps into Connor’s thick hoodie. He warily opens his eyes, careful not to scratch anything. He sits up. This process takes about 30 minutes, and by the time he gets up, it’s uncomfortably hot. The sun burns his skin, especially his legs. He cautiously looks down. His legs are scratches and bleeding, with some cuts brown and infected. Dried blood runs down a particularly nasty cut. Connor winces at the pain. He attempts to stand up, and a rush of pain shoots up his body. He shakily walks out. He wasn’t even attacked by a lion. God, doing this wasn’t even necessary. He mutters a slew of curses to himself and walks in what he remembers to be the direction he came from. His pace is slow and shaky, stopping every few seconds to breathe and think. He frowns as he looks around on his eight stop. Where is he? He couldn’t have gone that far. He feels exhaustion seeping in through his bones and collapses, thoroughly destroyed with despair. He crawls for a few meters before picking himself back up  
“Anyone?” Connor calls into the windswept, dry grass.  
No one. Shit. He walks a bit further, but everything looks the same. He’s hungry and tired by the time it becomes late morning. The sun is scorching, and the world sways under his feet. He can feel his skin burning, but can’t do anything. He’s exhausted and almost lost hope when he comes by a lake. There’s a small platform at the side, presumably for people to fish. Connor walks into the water. It’s cool and laps at his skin, a much needed treatment for his burns and cuts. He drinks some of the water, fully knowing it probably isn’t clean. It’s better than no water at all, though. After half an hour of splashing around, he decides to walk out. He dries off in the sun and puts his clothes back on. He continues walking, just slightly more hopeful now.

He’s almost lost focus when a large van drives up to him.  
“Connor McKinley! What the fuck?” A voice that is distinctly Nabulungi’s calls out to him.  
Connor takes a few seconds to adjust to the sound, before his brain even thinks of responding.  
“Uh- hi!”  
Naba runs out and pulls him into a hug.  
“We were worried sick.”  
Mafala, one of the only people in the village to own a vehicle, runs up to the boy.  
“Naba ran up to me late last night and told me you were gone. We started searching this morning. How are you so far?”  
Connor shrugs. A lie.  
“Let’s get you back to the hut. I think the other missionaries will have a lot to say.”  
Under any other circumstances, Connor would have been fighting against the idea of seeing the other missionaries in his state, but he simply collapses into Naba’s arms. Maybe he’s being a tiny bit overdramatic, but just give him this moment, he thinks.

Connor mentally tracks down the path to the lake in his head for the ride back. The seat is worn and uncomfortable, and the seatbelt won’t work, so he (unwillingly) decides to not wear it. After about twenty-five minutes of driving (Mafala’s car is old and doesn’t go very fast), he finds himself outside the mission hut.

Naba helps him off.  
“Good luck explaining this. You deserve it.”  
Connor scoffs, but he’s a tiny bit scared. He walks in.  
“Oh my god, Carrot-cake!”  
James is the first to notice his appearance, and runs to go hug him.  
“Is this okay?”  
Connor nods weakly.  
“Where the hell were you?” Poptarts’ voice follows.  
“Jesus Christ, Connor. If you do that ever again, we’ll kill you.” The blonde sighs and tussles Connor’s hair.  
“You look like you went through a car accident. Honestly, I would have committed suicide if I looked like that.” Kevin’s voice echoes in the hallway, disdain covering clear concern. “What happened to your legs?”  
“They were scratched by this stupid bush.”  
“Jesus fucking Christ. Connor, don’t do that. You almost had me scared.”  
“I know.”

The yells of the other elders follow.  
“We thought you were dead!”  
“We were going to make the trip to Kampala to alert police!”  
“Why didn’t you tell us we were going to be excommunicated?” Elder Neely cries.

Connor freezes and looks at Poptarts, who has a mortified look on his face.  
“Ok- so. I can explain. We were really worried about you, so uhm- Elder Michaels and Neely searched through your office for- for something like a suicide note… They found that. And they told… they told everyone.”  
Connor feels dread rush up his veins. His heart pulses fast and he can’t breathe anymore. He feels tears stream down his eyes but he can’t figure out why. Anger and anxiety and everything bad clutches him, until he can’t form thoughts, but is instead gasping for breath and running to his room. He hears others talking to him, but it’s distant and painful to focus on. Their sounds don’t make words. He can feel Poptarts touching him, and bats him away. He stumbles and loses his balance. His fingers and numb and motionless, awkwardly pricking his senses. He tries to breathe, but panic rises to his lungs, along with bile. He barely represses the vomit and forces himself to smile before forcing himself out of the living room and into his office.  
~•~•~  
He isn’t particularly sure how long he waits, though by the time he exits the room, the small shattered window by the desk is dark. He assumes that everyone else has retired to their rooms, as there is no body in the living room. He takes a seat on the broken yellow couch, making sure to avoid pushing any stuffing out. His fingers skim the few books on the coffee table. Harry Potter, the Book Of Mormon, and Hamlet. The last one had been Connor’s own addition. It was his first purchase with his own cash, something his parents had vehemently disapproved of. He had scoured the pages many times, the cover now yellow and worn with stains and tear drops. He lightly brushes off the dust that has accumulated onto the figure, and opens up to Act 1.

He isn’t particularly sure how long he reads, but he passes out after a bit.  
~•~•~  
He’s back at- at therapy. And he’s covered in vomit, his clothes cracking and a disgusting smell sending his nose on fire.  
“What is that?”  
His voice seems high and scared. He’s barely holding back tears. Life will get worse if he cries. His tiny head is facing a screen, one that shows.. well.. something not very nice. Involving two guys. He feels tears prick at his eyes as another wave of bile washes up his throat. His hands tightly clasp the arms of the now ruined chair, his knuckles white.  
“Now, we look at this one. Take this pill.”  
Connor knows he can’t resist, and diligently takes them. He inspects the small, shiny pill in his hand. His mouth tastes like vomit, and the idea of dry swallowing something like that scares him. He still does it.  
The moment he takes the pill, a new webpage pops up. It’s the same thing, but with a male and a female. He feels faintly sick, and thinks he’s going to vomit again, when nothing happens. That scares him more.  
~•~•~  
He wakes up in a cold sweat, and he wants nothing more than to scream. Instead, he practices the self control he learned at therapy, and presses his hand to his mouth, forcing his eyes to remain dry. He notices a blanket, now messy and undone, in a pile at his legs. A pillow rests on his head, and he’s lying across the sofa. He sits up, fingering the now reopened cuts on his hands. He stands up, careful not to bump into anything, and, using memory alone, goes and takes two sleeping pills. Connor goes to his room.

Thankfully, Poptarts is a sound sleeper, having learned to sleep anywhere after his stays at the hospital. Connor sneaks into his bed on the other end of the room and decides to sleep. No more dreams come to him that night.  
~•~•~  
“You do potatoes. I’ll do yam, and Kevin can.. honestly do whatever.” Connor’s rather sleep deprived the next morning.  
“I can just do another job.” Kevin comments, using a stick to draw shapes in the sand.  
“Stay here. Just help out or whatever, it doesn’t matter.”  
Kevin nods. He draws three stick figures, one figure significantly shorter than the rest. A mum, a dad and Kevin, Connor assumes.  
“You, James, me.” He says.  
“Which one am I?”  
“The short, ugly one, I assume.” James remarks. Connor snorts.  
“Not the ugly one, but definitely the short one.”  
“I’m only like.. 5 inches shorter than James!”  
“You’re five foot six. That’s tiny!” The dark brunette replies, nonchalantly placing his elbow on Connor’s shoulder.  
Connor huffs and walks over to the watering cans. He fills a large one with water and starts watering the yams.  
He finishes after a bit, and skips over to Kevin. The taller boy’s hair is mostly perfectly gelled with a bead of sweat hanging off a stray curl, the way it does when he’s finished carrying a garden pole.

“Connor, for real though, you look like shit.”  
“Language, Elder.”  
“You could have gone to your room last night. You didn’t have to fall asleep on the couch.”  
“You tucked me in?”  
Kevin nods sheepishly.  
“Under normal circumstances, I would kill you. But, sadly, I’m too tired to do so now.” Connor comments, inside eternally grateful for Kevin.  
“That’s why you sleep on a bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments, kudos’ and bookmarks are always appreciated.


	3. firefly magnet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor can’t control himself, and Kevin is just so pretty. Things get heated, die and explode. Just another day in District Nine.

When Connor finishes his work that day, the garden is almost ready. The sky is a picturesque orange, soft clouds floating across the horizon. He admires the view while considering how this night’s dinner is going to work. He’s pretty worried, having not eaten anything today in a hopeless bid to avoid seeing any of the elders He makes a stop by the market on his way back. It’s his strange way of procrastinating the discussion they’ll have at dinner. He had slept through breakfast and been working during lunch, but couldn’t find any reasonable way to avoid dinner, no matter how had he racked his brain. If it’s going to be so difficult, he may as well treat the other elders. He buys some cheap steak (He isn’t the Kardashians, after all) and stops at Mafala’s for some spices.  
“Is this your weird way of apologising for excommunicating your group from the Mormon Church?” Naba, as observant as ever, comments as Connor spoons some paprika into a sandwich bag.  
“I didn’t get them excommunicated. My dad did.”  
“You white boys all look the same anyway.”  
“I’m easily the prettiest of all of them though.”  
Naba laughs as Connor finishes off with some pepper. He profusely thanks Mafala and Nabulungi, and slowly trots back to the hut. To say he’s nervous would be an understatement. He meets Poptarts around the corner, who tries to reassure him.   
“You’ll be fine. They don’t hate you, they were just a hit shocked.”  
“You’re awful at measuring emotions.”  
“I’m actually amazing, but thanks.”  
The two walk back together, and Connor feels a tiny bit better.

He prepares dinner how he usually does on nights like these. He sluices the vegetables, closes his eyes, doesn’t cut himself. He’s quite alright at this now. He makes a salad before seasoning the beef. He relishes in the sizzling sound and smiles to himself as he takes the steak out and places it on perfectly chipped porcelain plates. He brings them out, much like a waiter would, balancing eight plates on both arms. He delicately sets them down and tries not to beam at the gasps of astonishment uttered by the other elders.  
“How much was this?”  
Connor shrugs, secretive and more than content to not say anything.  
“Why did you do this?”  
“I felt bad for the excommunication thing, so I took this chance to explain what happened to you guys.”  
The other elders nod commismerally.  
“I got a call from a particular Mormon of the LDS church almost a month ago. Uh.. basically he told me that,” Connor half mumbles his way through his explanation. “He told me that he made a complaint unless we all come back. I said no, obviously. Uhm.. yeah. I planned on telling you guys later, but I didn’t get a chance to.” He abruptly ends and sits down. “Enjoy.”  
~•~•~  
In retrospect, there weren’t that many questions, Connor thinks. Then, why does he feel so shitty? The ginger boy sits in his room, flicking through Hamlet. There’s nothing really much to do, he supposes. The ex-Mormon decides to climb out the window to the garden. He isn’t sure why he decides to do this, but his subconscious has already made the decision. To be honest, he doesn’t realise what he’s done until he’s standing in the uncomfortably hot outside. He goes for a walk, but this time tracing his steps back. It’s summer, so the sky is barely dark, instead a D Sharp orange, etched across the sky in a song for lost wishes. No one sees him when he leaves, thank God for that. He’s about to take a seat at the garden, when he decides to go to the lake. The world is the prettiest at this time of day, he thinks to himself. After almost an hour of walking, he sees a small, floral bush, flowers peeking through the cracks on a wooden platform. An old oak tree sits at the side, forming a rather quaint scene, what one could expect of a fairytale. There are clear grasps on the oak tree. It would be easy to climb. So, solely because he’s already broken possibly all the rules the Mormon Church, his friends and polite society in general have given him, he climbs the tree. It’s sturdy under his grasp. He trusts it; the two form a mutual and inexplicable bond. Slowly, he crawls to the end of the branch, where it’s thin and his weight weighs it down. Connor wants nothing but to feel the cold splash of water on his face. He’s finally snapped, and he knows it. No one is even going to care. He should just do it. He’s gone insane.

He wants to climb out of his own skin and end this. How pathetic is that? He’s an annoyance to Poptarts and Kevin always has to babysit him. He was always such a huge failure, from being gay to being excommunicated.

He falls off the branch accidentally on purpose.

The water hits him like a brick. It’s painful and twisted and he jumped in at all the wrong angles. However, when he opens his eyes and sees a swirl of bubbles, the pain slowly subsides. His brain is begging him to get out, to swim above shore and live another day. He meets this with apathy, and instead focuses on the silver-green of a reed that has haphazardly fallen into the water. He swims deeper down, desperate for relief. Everything’s too cold and uncomfortable. He breathes, and feel water sink into his lungs. It isn’t that painful, actually. He doesn’t half mind going out like this. It’s an ending to an awful story sketched and written in ink, the one known as his existence. He closes his eyes one last time and prepares for nothing, but instead feels oxygen rush to his lungs.

He sputters and coughs.  
“Connor McKinley. Explain?”  
Shit, it’s Kevin. Of course it’s Kevin. The brunette pulls Connor’s heaving body onto the muddy shore. The latter boy comes back to his senses. Did he really-  
“Are you okay?”  
Connor vomits water into the lake. Under normal circumstances, he would say ‘I’m fine’, but he supposes lying won’t do him any good. He doesn’t answer.  
“Everyone else wants some answers. Frankly, I do too.”  
“How did you find me?” Connor’s voice is hoarse and crackled. He barely forms the sentence.  
“Poptarts noticed you were gone again. Everyone became really worried after that, given the last time you were alone, you ended up tearing you legs up. I didn’t… I don’t think anyone was expecting you to do this though.”  
Connor nods, his face flat on the mud.  
“Do you want to talk about it?”  
“N’really.”  
Kevin takes a breath. “Just how low is your self-esteem, Connor?”  
“I don’t know.” The ginger rolls onto his back and feels another wave of pain hit him.  
“What caused this even?”  
“I— I don’t know.” And that’s even worse, he wants to say, because he just tried to— well— for no good reason.  
“You’re really scaring us all, Connor. You know you can just talk to us, right?”  
He nods once again, though he doesn’t really know. He’s too exhausted to cry now. He’s still adjusting to what he did. Why does Kevin keep saying his name?  
“I followed you here. Poptarts will kill you, Connor.”  
“Don’t use my name as an insult.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Stop saying ‘Connor’ like that.”  
“Okay… anyway, how did you think Poptarts and James will react?”  
“Don’t tell them. Please.”  
Connor pulls on Kevin’s arm. The younger boy hesitates.  
“Fine. Are you okay to walk?”  
“I guess.”  
“Let’s wash you up.” Kevin’s voice is soothing and gentle. It sounds nice, but so unlike Kevin. Probably because he just witnessed Connor attempting- well, he doesn’t need to go further than that.  
“Are you okay undressing by yourself?”  
Connor shakes his head.  
“Okay…” Kevin pulls Connor’s sticky orange shirt, now clinging to his frame, over his head. Connor doesn’t miss the way Kevin stares at his arm. “Did.. did you do this?” He points at the rows of symmetrical scars.   
Connor doesn’t say anything.  
“Okay, take my hoodie. It means you won’t be shirtless when you enter the mission hut.” Kevin laughs humorlessly. Connor puts the hoodie on. It’s all too large and hangs off his arms and covers his hands. Connor usually holds disdain for clothes like these, neon yellow and ugly patterned, but he doesn’t seem to half mind when it’s Kevin.  
“Come on.” Kevin pulls Connor up and helps him start walking, the smaller boy using the larger boy as a crutch.  
~•~•~  
He doesn’t react for the next few days. He, Connor McKinley, has hit rock bottom. Frankly, he doesn’t mind. He remains calm and collected, isolating everyone but himself in the name of self-care. He’s numb, cold to all, finally in the eye of the storm. He’s never going to climb back up, no. He’ll stay here, he decides. To climb up would be to admit he needs help, to reach out, to attempt to piece together the shattered, gawky puzzle pieces of his conscience. Luckily, most puzzles are cut out of the same die, meaning he can mix and match the healthy and unhealthy pieces of his mind until something forms. It won’t appear as a logical image, obviously, but it will be whole. That’s all he really cares about anyway.

The annoying thing is, others seem to care. If not care, at least notice. The carrots at dinner become badly chopped and the box of bandaids in the pantry runs out. The sleeping pills are askew and, clear to everyone but Connor, shittily hidden. Actually, maybe it is fairly clear to him, and he just doesn’t have the energy to do anything about it. People can only guess whose they are, although the guess is only limited to one out of one person. The ginger knows Elder Neely has taken out the bottle and shown it to someone. Probably Kevin, given that one day, the bottle appears on his bedside table, taped to it a heart drawn on a ripped out piece of lined paper. He saw the Elder take the bottle with an anxious look on his face one evening and pace around whispering to other people the next day. Now everyone thinks Connor is insane, or at least with severe ‘issues’ that need addressing. How lovely, he thinks to himself. It’s a thought that constantly gets stuck in the cogs of his brain, too large to be processed. He replays it, trying to find an answer, but ultimately cannot. So, he leaves it there, letting it get stuck, revisiting it, revisiting where he went wrong, twenty four seven. He starts dancing once again. Mainly to help him cope, though he won’t ever admit that. Dance helps him focus and pretend everything is okay. He has an on-off relationship with dance, he amusedly thinks to himself as he attempts a développé one afternoon. He’s always had trouble with doing them, and sighs, disappointed yet not surprised, when he loses his balance. He does some more barre work, using the back of the sofa as a makeshift barre. He almost doesn’t notice when Kevin enters.  
“Hey Con. What are you doing?”  
Connor awkwardly vaults over the couch. It almost seems natural, if one can ignore the messy hair and sweaty shirt.  
“How long have you been there?”  
“I just arrived. You look very busy. Were you doing anything?” Kevin asks, pouring two glasses of water, one without ice. Just how Connor drinks it.  
Weird, he doesn’t seem to recall mentioning that to Kevin.  
Connor sighs, wiping his forehead with one hand as he takes the cup from Kevin with the other.  
“I wasn’t doing anything important.”  
“Cool.” Kevin scrunches up his face as he takes a sip of water. “The ice tastes horrendous.”  
“You eat the ice?”  
The younger boy shrugs. “You don’t get a say in this debate. You don’t even drink ice. Failure.” He hits Connor, and gasps as a small amount of water pours out onto his shirt.  
“Oh, go play with your dolls.”  
Kevin smiles and Connor hits him back, careful not to spill his drink. He’s rather glad that he’s managed to detour Kevin from asking about his ballet.  
“Anyway, how’s life been?”  
Connor shrugs. “Not fantastic.”  
“We need to make a trip to the post office soon.” Kevin mentions.  
“Cool. You’ve already gone, so I’ll send out Arnold and Poptarts.”  
Kevin frowns. “Why don’t you ever go?”  
“Well, as district leader, I’ve never really had the option of going. Too worried about someone setting something on fire.”  
“I was thinking, actually. What if we went together?”  
“Sure.” Connor sighs and rubs his head, weary from all the changes in his life.

Connor moves to leave, but Kevin grabs his sleeve.  
“One more thing. Can we try and change the future?”  
“Sure. The future is changeable. We can live in a shitty apartment in New York. Poptarts, James and Arnold will always be over. The rent will be cheap and life will be good. We can make that happen.” He says absent-mindedly, as if it is all a day dream of his. He hums Defying Gravity from the musical Wicked to himself.  
He’s isn’t sure what makes him say that, although it seems to make sense to him. They’ve already established their life plan. He doesn’t know why he wants to repeat it. Maybe it’s because a small part of him wants it to come true. Kevin doesn’t have to know that though.  
“Our future is changeable.” Kevin repeats, seemingly satisfied with Connor’s answer.  
~•~•~  
Shit, of course it’s Connor who breaks the last glass. All he’d wanted was a glass of water during this trying time, was that too much to ask? He mentally hits himself as he switches on the light, flickering yellow and barely illuminant, blinking as his eyes adjust to the sudden brightness. A glowing alarm clock reads 11:04 am, a time much past the curfew regulated by the Mission Training Center back in Utah. A mosquito flies towards the couch; of course Elder Michaels left the door open again. The boy climbs onto the marble countertop and buries his head in his hands. He’s too tired for this. He rubs his eyes and runs his fingers around the tender, infected skin on his hand before finally picking up the glass without gloves. His vision is blurry at the edges and he feels quite dizzy, but he forces himself to continue picking up the glass, wincing slightly every time it cuts him. He faintly hears footsteps in the corner of his hearing as he collects the last of the glass into a pile nearby.  
“Who’s there?” A voice that is distinctly Poptarts’ calls out.  
“It’s Elder McKinley.” Connor sighs and stands up. The short blonde looks bleary in Connor’s sleep-deprived vision.  
Chris never demands an explanation, muses Connor. Maybe that’s why the two are such good friends. Chris never asks Connor what he’s doing, choosing to show his concern in simply helping and dealing with it instead. He seems to understand that Connor needs more personal space than most people, which he is unspeakably grateful for.  
“Do you want me to help?” It isn’t a giant question, unlike the ones Kevin has been pressing down on him these past few days. Connor feels no pressure to say anything, but simply starts putting the glass shards into the bin. Poptarts hands him some gloves and the two set out to finish.  
“I noticed you haven’t been sleeping in our room very often.” He states once they’re finished.  
“Yeah, these few weeks have been wild.”  
“You hands are bleeding.” He states bluntly.  
Connor looks down. A gash has formed on one hand. It isn’t particularly large, but looks quite deep. Blood seeps out of it.  
“Do you want a bandage?”  
“That would be great.” A lie. Connor doesn’t really want someone to coddle over him any more. As their district leader, that’s not how things should work.  
Poptarts stays for a second. “Something’s bothering you.” He remarks, biting his lip and staring into Connor as if he’s analysing the boy.  
Without any further comment, he leaves to go get a bandage. Connor’s brow furrows, a crease forming in the usually even skin.  
“Here. Do you want me to wrap it up?”  
Unthinkingly, Connor nods. Because of course he does. Poptarts starts applying some dressing onto Connor’s hand. The ginger hisses in pain, recoiling from the shock. Chris secures his hand onto the district leader’s shoulder reassuringly.  
“This is the most painful part. It’ll be better soon.” He mumbles over and over.  
Connor nods through gritted teeth. After a while, the pain subsides. Poptarts then gently wraps up Connor’s hand, precision and form clearly well-practised. He fastens it with tape.  
“Don’t do any cooking for the next few days. Or carrying garden poles. Or swimming. You know what, if you want to do anything involving your hand and a risk, just ask me or James to do it.” Chris states, knowing fully well Connor won’t follow his advice.  
“Fine.”  
“Great. Come on, let’s go back to the bedroom.”  
Connor forgets about his cup of water.  
~•~•~  
Months pass in a windswept blur, a vase with no flowers. It isn’t a life altering change, Connor thinks. It takes seed in little ways, like the fact that Kevin always seems to the person who bounds up to him when he’s alone or sad. Less awkward silences fill up the room. Connor finds himself being touched more. Sometimes, the two will sit completely apart in a large group. Someone will make a joke, and Kevin will glance at Connor with a secretive smile, like whatever is being said is just between them. The space between Connor and everyone else seems to lessen, just slightly. 

The two are relaxing in the garden when Kevin speaks.  
“Uhm.. you know.. since our mission could be ending soon,” He looks away anxiously, as if acknowledging that fact throws him off. “What are your plans for the future?”  
Connor frowns. He’s never quite thought about that before, having long ago dismissed it as being on Broadway. Actually, how hard would it be to get onto Broadway?  
“The future?” He remains undisturbed. Or tries to.  
“Yeah, have you ever thought about it asides from the ‘shitty apartment together’ thing?”  
“No, I suppose not. I’ve always wanted to do something stage-related. Broadway is the obvious choice.”  
“You have a nice singing voice.” Kevin states, as if it is a fact.  
“Thanks. You want to be a teacher, correct?” Connor bluntly deflects the conversation. He was never taught how to receive compliments, only to give.  
“Yeah, I loved school as a kid. I’m not sure where I’m going to get university funds though.”

The two fall into silence, each contemplating the possibility of their responses.  
“You know, there was a time when I felt like you do.” Kevin chooses his words carefully.  
“What do you mean by that?” Connor says with more force than he intended.  
“Well, I was fresh out of the Missionary Training Center. Wide eyed idealist, if you will. Going to Uganda was.. strange for me. First, being robbed by BFN. Then, I find out the current missionaries have zero baptisms. I see someone dead the next day and I lash out. I have a Hell dream and everyone’s suddenly now kissing up to Arnold’s ass. So, I decide to confront BFN. And, instead of converting him,” Kevin stares down at his hands, his facial expressions softening. “I get.. sexually assaulted by him.” His eyes are dark and distant, and Connor feels an uneasy bitter taste on his tongue.  
“Do you want to go on?” He cautiously prompts, suddenly aware that he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.  
“Sure. Uhm, I got the book shoved up..” He signals, and Connor feels slightly weak. “The funny thing is, if it had happened to someone else, I would have laughed. But it’s just… so real now.” His back is hunched and he’s looking away from Connor.  
“I never knew. I’m so sorry, Kevin.”  
“It’s fine.”  
“It’s not.” His words sound cheap, a plastic band-aid against much deeper cuts.  
“Is it okay to hug you?”  
Kevin nods and Connor envelopes him.  
“You can tell me anything. We’re in this together, you know? It’s better opening up. I wish I did sometimes.” The ginger whispers, his lip barely grazing Kevin’s ear.  
“I wish you opened up sometimes too.”  
The two stay there for a very long time.  
~•~•~  
Connor is fifteen, and he solidly keeps his school and personal life separate. He works to achieve high grades and plays basketball at lunch, then goes home and has a Hell dream. Rinse, repeat. Seeing James is now a scarce treat he allows himself to do when he has free time. Seeing Steve is an everyday thing, but Connor wishes it wasn’t. Seeing Steve in the hallway reminds him of middle school, of ballet and his alternate thoughts. So, if he’s sometimes rude to the curly-haired boy, why does it matter? It’s not going to kill him or anything. He wipes a hand through his hair. Of course his school has a musical every year, yet no air conditioning. He spots a poster.  
“Audition for the musical! Room C023. Audition booklet below.”  
Big blue writing in front of the musical logo. Oliver!, apparently. He leafs through an audition booklet, not particularly planning to audition. He’s seen musicals before. Elijah had performed in the Drowsy Chaperone three years ago.  
“There will be a dance workshop.”  
He hastily stuffs the folder into his bag.

Turns out, he’s rather good at acting, and gets the role of the Artful Dodger. In the next few weeks, he becomes nothing short of immersed in theatre. Becoming obsessed with theatre is something he never thought he’d do, yet, at the cast after-party, when he looks at Ella M, the girl who plays Nancy, humming along to Where is Love?, he feels a strange sense of belonging.  
~•~•~  
“We’re almost there.”  
When Nabulungi proposed the idea of a trip with Arnold and Kevin, Connor had thought ‘What could go wrong?’, given a resounding ‘screw it’, and decided to go. If he had known it was to the mountains for a day, he would have banned it immediately.  
“I was thinking like a picnic or something, Naba. Not a murder spree.”  
Naba giggles, honey-like and sweet.  
“McKinley, you won’t die. We’re just staying there for the night so we can catch the sunrise tomorrow.”  
Connor feels anxiety prick up his skin. Are Poptarts and James okay managing the others? He forces himself back into reality by breathing in the ice cold air.  
“I’m never doing this again.”  
“Fine, I guess next time we’ll go by ourselves. How do you guys feel about a dark cave for three days?”  
“Jesus Christ Kevin! No!” Connor yelps and almost stumbles over.  
The idea of anything happening makes him sick. He feels his body being supported by Kevin’s arm.  
“Sorry, that was too far..”  
“Sorry, my fault.” He shrugs it off and walks in front of the group.  
“How much longer to go, Nabulungi?” Arnold calls out.  
“Maybe two kilometers?”  
“That’s about one mile.” Kevin calls back.  
One mile. Fantastic. Not far at all. He can do this.  
“Slow down, Connor. You’ll get lost.” Kevin’s concerned voice echoes through the trees.  
“There’s one path.”  
Kevin sighs. “Fine. Just don’t get lost.”  
Connor stops. Is Kevin worried about him?  
“What’s the hold up?”  
“Oh! Uhm… how many tents do we have?” Connor rubs his neck uncomfortably.  
“Two. I was thinking I can share one with Arnold. Are you two okay with that?” Naba responds.  
“Sure! Yeah, that’s okay.” Kevin says, possibly a little too enthusiastically.  
Everyone walks in silence for a while, stopping occasionally to admire a strange looking plant or a very possibly poisonous bug. Connor doesn’t mind, oohing and aahing in appreciation every few minutes, never pushing to the front to get a better view. He’s fully aware he doesn’t quite belong there, that this puzzle piece isn’t designed for him. He still fits though, so nobody is complaining.

It’s dark by the time they get to the top of the mountain. It’s nothing that impressive, Connor thinks. It’s some dry earth with cracks of stamped on grass erupting from underneath the ground. It’s flat, and there are places   
the soil is just soft enough to put a tent pole.  
“Come on. Help.” He beckons Kevin over and the two open up a tent, messily unfolding it and placing it onto the ground.  
“Do you know how to assemble a tent?” Kevin asks.  
“Assemble?”  
“Is that not the term for it?”  
“So, we’re both clueless? How fantastic.”  
“We can try asking Arnold and Naba.”  
“Let’s leave those two lovebirds alone. Look,” Connor waves up a piece of paper. “Instructions.”  
Kevin isn’t that bad at following instructions. Well, he was a missionary, and following instructions is kind of an important prerequisite.  
The two work together on putting the tent up. By the time they’ve finished, it’s barely sunset. The tent itself is sloppy and clearly put together by someone inexperienced, but Connor can’t help but feel a rush of pride when he looks at it.  
“Do you guys want to do one of those campfires?” He sarcastically remarks once the two are done.  
“It’s too hot. We can tell stories though.” Arnold replies, rubbing his neck and looking at Naba, completely lovestruck.  
The four sit in a group exchanging stories and singing songs. Connor doesn’t contribute much. He doesn’t have to. He laughs as Kevin recounts the time he got ordering food banned at his high school, and sings along to The Circle Of Life with everyone else, except Naba, who hasn’t heard of the Lion King before. Instead, she hums along to the melody, having long figured it out by the second verse.  
“Connor, tell us a story.” Naba asks, pushing her coily hair behind an ear.  
“Yeah Connor, I wanna hear your stories.” Kevin begs, smirking.  
Connor sighs as Arnold laughs.  
“No.”  
“Please?”  
“Fine. So, there was this girl, who had this boyfriend, right?” He decides to do an urban legend. He puts more effort into the story than necessary, doing voices and making hand gestures. He carries on for a few minutes; it’s a rather short story. “Turns out,” He dramatically pauses. “He worked at a morgue.”  
He smiles, content with the look of horror on Naba’s face. Arnold is gazing down at her girlfriend; he probably didn’t even hear the story fully. Kevin smirks.  
“Nice one, Connor. I like it.” He states, pushing around a pebble that has fallen at his feet.  
“It’s late.” Arnold states. “We should head in.”  
“Goodnight Arnold. Goodnight Naba.”  
“Goodnight Kevin and Connor.”

Admittedly, the sight of the mountains at night is very pretty. The sky is clouded and slightly misty. The edges of sunset push onto the darker sky, creating a deep velvet, the kind so brilliant you could only ever dream to see them in movies. Fireflies glow amber and the smell of petrichor makes it seem like it has never stopped raining there. The night glow does strange things to Kevin’s face, his hair light brown instead of honeycomb and eyes whiskey instead of chocolate. He smiles, and his cheeks glow rosily. Connor might just be imagining things, but he feels more ‘right’ in this one moment than going to church has ever made him.  
“Come on.” Kevin beckons him to the tent.  
“Do you want to stay outside for a bit longer?”  
“I’m tired.”  
“You can sleep tomorrow.”  
Wordlessly, the younger boy takes a seat next to the district leader.  
Connor is suddenly at a loss for words, all the things he’s wanted to say suddenly freezing up and dissipating.  
“The sky is beautiful tonight.” He mentions.  
“Yeah. I haven’t seen fireflies since I left.”  
“Same.” He pauses. “What do you miss most about America?” It’s a soft question, barely a nod to the past.  
“The food. God, I would do anything to bite into a burger.” Kevin laughs, but there’s a small catch in his throat and a barely noticeable waver in his voice.  
“Watch the end of the sunset with me.”  
“We can watch the sunrise instead. Tomorrow.”  
“Screw the future. It’s about now, right? Tomorrow is a latter day and all that?”  
“I suppose so.” Kevin leans slightly into Connor, his hand skimming the edges of the rough log they sit at.  
“Do you have anyone back in America? Some nice, Mormon girl?”  
Kevin shakes his head, looking down at the crunchy leaves. “No, definitely not.”  
Connor can’t stop himself. “Why not?”  
“I don’t know, I guess I’ve just never been focused on love.”  
“Everyone’s always made love everything about me.” Connor is speaking before he thinks, words erupting out of him, things he’s wanted to say for years, all coming out at once so suddenly. “I didn’t even want to speak about it, but they always acted like I should. At other times though, they pretended it was never there. That made it the loudest thing in the room. And, that hurt. A lot, actually.” He laughs mirthlessly, fidgeting with his thumbs.  
“I get it. I’m sorry about that.” Kevin moves slightly closer.  
“Don’t be, it’s not your fault.”  
“It doesn’t have to be my fault.”  
Connor is silent, thinking over this answer.  
“Goodnight, Kevin.” He stands up to leave.  
“Connor- being gay is fine, right?”  
Connor freezes.  
“What do you mean?”  
“I mean, maybe the church is wrong.”  
He chuckles. “The church is wrong about a lot of things.”  
Kevin grabs Connor’s hand.  
“Yeah. Maybe it is.”  
He kisses the smaller boy. It’s awkward and rough, and it takes Connor by surprise, but- is he kissing back? And maybe their noses bump a little too much and their teeth clash, but neither of them mind. Connor has to stand on his tip-toes, and Kevin still has to bend his neck down, and the humidity makes their hair frizz, and Connor’s entire body is telling him to get away, but it’s nice. Even if imperfect.  
Connor breaks apart first.  
“Was that okay? Sorry, it was so sudden-“ Kevin mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  
Connor silences him.  
“It was fine.”  
“Let’s go sleep.”  
“Sure. Arnold and Naba will be excited in the morning.”  
“They will.”  
They fall asleep holding hands, and Connor finds that he can’t remember if he had a Hell dream the day after.  
~•~•~  
The sky is magnetic, Connor thinks. He sits on a large rock, his feet dangling off the edge. If someone had told him that one day he would be busy staring at the sky, he would have laughed at the wasted time. However, his mind has finally been changed. A sea of yellows and pink pillow the air, an artist’s palette splattered onto a singular cloud. God, the clouds. They’re streaky and translucent, half visible among the deep reds of the horizon.  
Once the sky is fully blue, the small group pack up their items and set off.  
“What are we?” Kevin asks.  
Connor stops. “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”  
“Well, we did kiss last night.”  
“We did.”  
“Do you want to do it again?”  
Connor pauses. “Yeah.”  
“Do you want to be my boyfriend then?”  
Connor can’t seem to find an answer. He walks away.  
~•~•~  
Kevin doesn’t seem to understand that Connor doesn’t want to date him, the ginger thinks exasperatedly. It’s dirty, he thinks. Two men dating is unnatural, a secret he’s kept to himself for so long. Now it’s all out. Of course it is. Connor beats himself up for this, for giving into his temptations after so long. It’s his only thought for a week, constantly ravaging him until he finally goes insane.

He starts getting Hell dreams again. They start out small, tiny fragments that he barely remembers, but slowly spreads out to a larger whole. He deserves it though. It’s justified, as he kissed a person of the same sex. He constantly reminds himself that to the point of pain. He stops kissing Kevin, ‘make no more advances’, he firmly tells himself. He starts turning it off again instead, deciding to hide it all under a cheery smile. It makes the elders stare at him, all of them fully knowing something has happened. They whisper and talk. Poptarts confronts him, but he lies. He doesn’t care, either. He’s manic, but a hollow shadow of himself. He stops sleeping, instead choosing to steal some of Kevin’s coffee every morning. Everyone is too scared to comment on his horrendously dark eyebags, he knows that. He’s aware the others think he’s gone mad. Frankly, he has. He throws the remaining piece of himself he still controls into work.

He doesn’t seem to fully realise how bad things have become until he’s making dinner again one night. He’s making yam mash when Kevin pulls him aside.  
“Hey.” The younger boy nods.  
“Hi.”  
“I’m going to be blunt here — Are you okay?”  
“Can I lie?”  
“Con.”  
“Fine. No.”  
“Do you want to talk about it?” Kevin climbs onto the counter and sits cross-legged.  
“What’s there to talk about? We kissed, it was wrong, I won’t do it again.” He pretends to not see the hurt flash across Kevin’s face.  
“I feel like we’ve had this kind of talk a lot, but seriously.”  
“Stop touching the yam, that’s unsanitary.” He half-laughs of sorts and goes back to preparing the dinner.  
“Can you put the knife down? This is serious.”  
Kevin grabs Connor’s face and Connor realises. This isn’t just about being gay anymore; It’s about the fact that he hasn’t slept in days, or that he ran away and got lost, or that he hid their ex-communication and pretended it didn’t matter at all.  
“Sorry.” He mumbles.  
“It’s fine.”  
“It’s not.”  
“Can we just talk? Properly?”  
Connor grabs Kevin and kisses him before the taller boy gets another word in. He pushes him against the wall and pretends to not care when he sees Poptarts enter the room out of the corner of his eye. They kiss once, then again, then again. Kevin pulls himself away first.  
“Is that better than talking?” Connor asks.  
Kevin smiles coyly and leaves.  
~•~•~  
“What’s with you and Kevin?” Poptarts finally questions him one afternoon.  
“Fantastic conversation starter as always, Chris.” He makes a noise and flops down onto his companion’s bed, fanning himself with a copy of the Book of Arnold.  
“I’m a better one than you, at least.”  
Connor huffs. “You turn everything into a competition.”  
“I think you’re confusing me with James.”  
“Yeah, what’s up with you and James anyway?” Connor questions, tilting his head much like a cat would.  
“Nothing.”  
“Are you sure about that?”  
“You’re stupid.”  
“How so?”  
“Well, you have a suffocating regard for the rules, can’t take a hint, want everything your way, and are overall a huge weight on my shoulders. Do you want me to list more?” Poptarts counts on his fingers, stopping every few seconds to think.  
“Yeah, why are you still my friend?”  
“Stop asking questions.” He pauses. “Although, if you must know, it’s because James would hate me if I wasn’t.”  
Connor makes a sputtering sound with his lips. “No, he wouldn’t.”  
“Oh, Connor.” He smiles and leans onto his hand, using that tone of voice he only uses for Connor.  
“You’re strange.”  
“Perhaps I am.”  
“I would still like to know about James.” He settles himself down into his mission companion’s lap.  
“As I with Kevin.”  
“He doesn’t like me.”  
“Connor, anyone with eyes can see he likes you.”  
Connor pauses. “How?”  
“He looks at you like Arnold looks at Naba.”  
“Heavenly Father, is it that bad?” He pinches Poptart’s thigh, and snorts when he hears an ‘Ow! Fuck!’ From the blonde.  
“I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s bad, per say. I’ve already found you two making out, what else is there to say?”  
“Yeah, but-“  
“But what? Doesn’t your heart flutter when you see him?”  
Connor feels like he can’t breathe. “Maybe.” He hoarsely whispers.  
“There. You like him. Simple as that.”  
“I don’t know though. What if- what if I’m wrong? What if all this has been for nothing?”  
“I’m sure it hasn’t. Take faith. If it has, you’ve kissed- what? Once? You can still end it.”  
“I just don’t know!” He sighs exasperatedly and pushes himself off of Poptarts.  
“You don’t know.” Poptarts repeats, as if it is the simplest thing ever.  
“Confused?” He offers.  
“Maybe. Doubtful too, probably.” He offers.  
“Doubtful works to describe my feelings pretty well.” Connor sighs and feels Poptarts running his hands through his hair.”  
“Tell me; Where do you see this going?”  
“I don’t know. We make the most of our chances and leave when we run out of money?”  
“I’m talking about you and Kevin.”  
Connor’s ears perk up. He’s planned for this.  
“We’re thinking of becoming roommates after the mission ends. We’ll live in New York. Kevin will be a university student studying education, and I’ll be a struggling barista trying to get a big Broadway break.”  
“Is this going to play out like a musical?”  
Connor falters, startled. “Maybe?”  
“‘Maybe’ sounds like a pretty solid ‘yes’ in your vocabulary. How far do you think that arrangement will go?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“Have you planned past that at all? What if you fall out?”  
“We won’t.”  
“Then stop breaking Kevin’s heart and go date him.”  
“No.”  
“You’re very clearly in love.”  
“Well, I wouldn’t use the term _in love_ exactly, just-“  
“Shut up. I’m going to go get us some water, then you can rant about your sad love life.” Poptarts stands up and leaves.  
It’s unbearably hot today. Connor would personally place the temperature at past one-hundred degrees Farenheit. He isn’t sure if this could be classified as a heat wave, but he’s called a day of rest just to be safe. He quietly reflects on the past few days. Is everything okay with Kevin? Hopefully he didn’t mind. He pauses his train of thought as Poptarts re-enters holding two plastic cups filled with water.  
“Plastic? That’s wasteful.”  
“I didn’t want to wash the cups later.”  
“Chris Thomas, you’re on dish duty tonight. Punishment for being the reason why sea turtles die.”  
Poptarts sighs. “Do you want this water or not?”  
“Pass.” He grabs the water and takes a long gulp.  
“So, tell me about Kevin.”  
“Thanks, Chris.”  
~•~•~  
The next time he finds Kevin, he’s huddled on the couch, a flimsy blanket covered over him.  
“Hey, are you okay?” He finds himself asking.  
“Fine. Just tired.” The brunette rolls over to hide his face.  
“That’s not what tired looks like.”  
“I don’t care.”  
“Jesus…” Connor sits on the arm of the couch, cautiously stroking Kevin’s arm (which now appears very small and frail) over the white-tinted translucent blanket.  
“Water?” He asks, almost sheepishly.  
The ginger almost trips over his feet trying to grab a cup. He makes a mental note to clean up the spill on the kitchen tiles.  
“At your service.”  
“You’re a terrible butler.”  
“Go get the water yourself then.”  
“Fuck off, McKinley.”  
“At your service.” He repeats, walking away. “Oh! Do you need any medicine, or some electrolytes or anything?” He asks worriedly.  
“Nah, I’ll be fine.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“Let me sleep.” He waves his hand, a dismissal.  
Connor isn’t really sure what to do with his feet, so he awkwardly walks up the stairs of the hut. He isn’t sure what happened to Kevin, but it doesn’t appear to be the flu. Shit, what could it be then? AIDS? Ebola? God, can he even imagine a dead Kevin? He feels his muscles tensing up. Kevin, so full of life, sick? He can feel himself spiralling, but can’t do anything to stop it.  
He stumbles to Arnold’s room.

“Prophet Cunningham?”  
“McKinley!”  
The two embrace each other, despite not really knowing each other very well. Connor feels himself bristle, but shoves that thought to the back of his mind.  
“I was just wondering, do you know what happened to Elder Price?”  
“Oh, yeah. He got some weird disease. We took him to see Gotswana today, and he said it can be passed through contact with infected needles, sex, and something else I can’t remember. Apparently it’s a gay person thing?”  
“What?” He grabs the bed, trying not to shake.  
“Sorry, that was a joke.” He tries to sound apologetic, but the clear tone of his voice indicates he’s trying to stop himself from laughing. Once he’s calm enough to speak, he starts.  
“I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you anything, but something happened at the school.” He whispers.  
“The school?” He echoes. Didn’t he tell Elder Cunningham and Kevin to do the Book of Arnold today?  
“Yeah. I know, we shouldn’t have gone there, but Kevin was acting all agitated and irritable, and you know how he loves the little kids, he’s all ‘Aw! Kids!’, but anyway, that’s not relevant, uhm —“  
“You’re spiralling. Breathe.” Once he hears Elder Cunningham’s breath slow down, he starts. “Try again?”  
“Yes. So, Kevin wanted to go to the school, and I told him ‘sure’. But he saw two of the parents holding hands and kiss, and that did something to him?”  
“What do you mean by ‘something’?”  
“He started breathing really fast and fell over. I think I saw him cry.”  
“Fuck,” He states, because he knows exactly what happened. “Can I please leave? Thank you for your time.”  
“Yeah, yeah. Sure— can you please watch over Kevin for me?” He asks, almost distracted. He’s never looked this anxious before.  
“Yeah. Sure.”  
~•~•~  
Arnold’s story appears to be correct, for the next morning, Kevin appears at the breakfast table, seemingly fine. His hair is slightly messy, and it’s clear he didn’t get much sleep the night before, but Connor decides not to worry about that for the time being. (He seems to be doing that a lot these days.)  
“Toast?” He asks, mouth full.  
“I couldn’t. That shit’s disgusting.”  
“It’s not that bad!”  
“It’s wholegrain.”  
“Mhm, okay.” He mutters, going back to eating.  
Once everyone has finished their breakfast and had a look at the schedule today, Connor grabs Kevin’s arm.  
“See me in my office. I need to speak with you.”  
“Is this a professional thing or—“ He asks, indicating to Connor as the second option.  
“I know what happened last night.” He simply responds, a blank poker face plastered onto his weary expression.  
“Arnold told you?” He asks, more worried than angry.  
“Don’t be mad at him, I forced it out.” He blatantly lies.  
“I’m sorry that I went to the school instead. It was just so hot and everything was itchy and I couldn’t breathe, so Arnold took me.” The two pretend not to notice their fast breathing.”  
“I’m not angry about that.”  
“You aren’t?”  
“Well, technically I should be, so let’s just say that I am.”  
“Sure, yeah.”  
“But what happened with the parents?”  
“He wasn’t supposed to tell you that much!”  
“I know anyway.”  
“Fuck.” He mutters. “I can’t explain, you know that.”  
“If I’m causing you pain, we should just break this— whatever ‘this’ is, off.” He says, before thinking.  
“I thought ‘this’—“ He gesticulates with apostrophe marks a little too wildly— “Was already off.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“We were never dating, were we?”  
“No.” He admits.  
“You can’t have it all. Get over yourself. I’m not going to be used as your- your fucking toy, to be kissed and then dumped.” Connor had almost forgotten about Kevin’s fiery side.  
“Fuck you. You don’t get to say that.”  
“I don’t care.”  
Before he thinks of any remark, Connor feels himself grabbing Kevin’s face, and pressing their lips together. Shockingly, the taller boy starts kissing back. The two grab each other passionately, lustily exploring each other’s mouths. Connor grabs Kevin’s shirt, pulling the two even closer. The two kiss for a while, until their lips are puffy and their hair is tangled from being grabbed and pulled. Kevin’s puppy-dog eyes are even wider than Connor thought possible, as if to say ‘we just did that’.  
“Sorry. I get ahead of myself.” Connor mutters.  
“Yeah, okay.” He doesn’t show any emotion, instead heading for the door.  
“Cool.”  
“Cool.” He repeats sarcastically.  
Connor can’t help but feel like he’s fucked up.  
~•~•~  
It always ended like this; Connor and Kevin arguing, then making out. Connor cutting Kevin off before he could get another word in. They leave as strangers, people who know nothing about each other except the way they look when they’re being kissed. (Kevin is wide-eyed and his lips puff very easily.) Connor can’t really bring himself to care, because as long as he gets to say he’s bagged Kevin, he’s fairly content.

Adisa is about six months old now. He’s really very pretty, Connor thinks as he stares down at him. His short, chubby arms reach to pull at the blanket covering him and grab at the ginger’s face. The baby smiles back, with large dark eyes and soft flicks of smoky butter brown growing as tufts of hair. Connor can’t help but feel a rush of affection towards him, gently rocking the delicate figure.  
“He’s adorable,” Elder Michaels mutters.  
Connor can’t really think of anything to say, so he sings ‘On My Own’ from Les Miserables. It feels appropriate to his overall situation, especially regarding Kevin. Especially regarding his family, a small voice in his head says. He pushes it out to deal with later. It’s not turning it off, he reasons. He isn’t permanently ridding himself of those feelings, simply leaving them to deal with later.  
~•~•~  
One could easily assume James is one of the most logical and stable of Connor’s friendship group. So, when the former district leader gets back from a happy morning of visiting Asmeret and Adisa, he’s shocked, to say the least, when he sees Poptarts and James in his room, the former rubbing small circles into the latter’s back. A crease is evident between their eyebrows, one that Connor is desperate to push back up. He clears his throat the make sure his two friends know he’s there.  
“Carrot-cake, we didn’t see you there.” Poptarts mutters, almost disgruntled.  
“Sorry. Is everything okay here?” He moves to sit on the other end of the noirette, putting his arm around the taller boy’s shoulder and whispering ‘there, there’.  
No response comes from either of the boys. They sit in awkward silence, glancing up at each other for a bit before looking back down.  
He’s extremely surprised when James begins to cry. Drops of tears leak down his eyes at first, almost as if he hadn’t realised he’s crying. The blonde makes a futile attempt to wipe at them with his sleeve. They slowly start streaming down, a shiny glaze washed over his now red face. Sobs erupt out of him.  
“What happened?” Connor finds himself asking, although he knows he shouldn’t.  
“We’ll have to go back, won’t we?” The noirette whispers again and again.  
Shit, Connor’s figured out what this is about.  
“We don’t have to go back. You can move states, start college.” He half-heartedly offers. He knows James is right.  
“Money then.”  
“Loans.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“Everything will be alright.”  
“M’kay.” He mutters.  
Poptarts hasn’t said a word throughout any of this. He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. Grabbing onto the mattress, he glances at James. A wave of anxiety clearly flitters through his face, before he puts on a poker face and decides to remain calm.  
“Are you okay there?” Connor hoarsely whispers to the blond.  
“I’m fine.”  
“Can you get us some water?” The ginger signals to Chris. Poptarts could get especially emotional, God knows that much. If he needs a break, he sure as Hell can take it.  
“Yeah, sure.” He makes a beeline for the door.  
There’s a few tentative seconds before Connor can clearly hear Chris crying on the other end. He doesn’t really sob, instead sniffling loudly. Exactly what the ginger can hear right now.  
“He’s crying, isn’t he?” James whispers.  
Connor can’t lie, not to one of his best friends, not now.  
“Yeah. He is.”  
“I— not your fault.” He can only say, a blank and empty promise.  
“Can we be okay?” The question makes no sense, jumbled and messy, but Connor gets the rough meaning behind it.”  
“We can, and we will.”  
“Do you think my mom’s going to be okay?”  
“I’m sure she’ll be fine. She’s a smart lady.”  
“You’ve never even met her.” He argues.  
It’s true. Connor has never met James’ mother. The noirette had always preferred to play at Connor’s house, for it was larger and friendlier. To be fair, everything was friendlier than James’ house. The ginger feels slightly sorry.  
“I miss the things I never had.” James whisper-sings.  
“I’m sorry you never had a childhood.”  
“Your parents were nice.” He sighs, pushing his knees up to his chin.  
“They don’t particularly want me.”  
“Does anyone want us?” He retorts.  
“How many elders have lost their parents since the ex-communication?” Connor asks, trying to find a slight distraction from James’ dilemma.  
“Hm… you, right?” Connor nods. “Okay, you, Kevin almost definitely. I can see it in the fact he’s less arrogant now—“  
“How do you know it’s because his parents disowned him and not because he went through actual growth as a person?”  
“He may have also grown, but he seems more wary of himself and everyone around him. Elder Neely, almost definitely. His parents were extremely strict. Elder Cunningham’s were an inch away from disowning him anyway. I doubt they still want him after this.” He counts on his fingers.  
“So everyone except you and Poptarts?”  
“And Michaels and Davis, yes.”  
“Fucking fantastic. You never know how shitty someone is until you get excommunicated from church, I guess.”  
It’s at this moment that Poptarts returns with two cups of water, porcelain mugs, to his praise, filled with water.  
“You, and you.” He passes the cups around.  
It’s clear to Connor that he’s trying to cover up the fact that he’s been crying. His eyes are smaller than normal, and his face is blotchy and red.  
“Thank you, Chris.”  
“Shall we talk about it as a group?” Poptarts offers, nudging James’ knee.  
“I guess we have to.” The latter smiles weakly, a catch in his voice and a quiver in his lips.  
“Sure. I guess we really do.”  
~•~•~  
To say that the next few days around Kevin are awkward is a rather big understatement. Connor doesn’t necessarily _avoid_ the taller boy, per say, but just… hangs out more with Poptarts and James. Because he knows Kevin isn’t close to them. Partially. That’s partially the reason. He also loves his best friends and spends more time with them because he’s been neglecting him recently. And— and if that may or may not have affected the schedule a tiny bit, it’s solely because he wants to focus on getting everything done.  
“We still need to make a trip to get mail.” Kevin says to him one day.  
Shit, the one thing Connor’s been putting off. He supposes that he was already putting it off before the camping trip, as he had never gotten the mail before and didn’t want to leave his missionaries alone. The events after the camping trip were just simply more reasons to avoid the trip he had promised Kevin.  
“Do we need more hate mail from our parents?”  
“We need more kindling.” He retorts, but Connor doesn’t laugh.  
“Maybe a bit later. I’ve got work to do right now.” He shoos Kevin off. “Aren’t you meant to be at the school anyway?”  
“Maybe. Will I get in trouble if I say yes?”  
“Go do your work, Elder Price.” He pretends not to notice the flutter of hurt on Kevin’s face at ‘Elder Price’.  
To his merit, he actually leaves. Connor didn’t expect that of him.  
“You’re being quite harsh on the kid.” James mutters to him.  
“He deserves it.”  
“You turn five times more ugly when you have a crush.” The noirette smiles, and Connor actually laughs. He knows inside that if it had come from Kevin, he would have been pissed. Maybe he’s better off just with James and Poptarts, and no Kevin. Maybe.  
“Am I not ugly already?”  
“No, you’re stunning. Just like the manure you’re meant to be placing onto the dirt right now.”  
“I can and will place the manure on your face.”  
“I can and will use Poptarts as a shield.” He states seriously, echoing the leader’s past words.  
“Are things already getting that serious with him?” He jokes, elbowing James and signalling at the brown-eyed boy standing a few meters away, actually doing work.  
“Go make the plants not die. Shoo.” James sighs, walking away.  
“James Church, you suck,” He calls out.  
He goes back to the manure, although his thoughts are riddled with Kevin. Not just Kevin actually. More his idyllic, dark yet golden Disney Prince hair, or the way the tip of his mouth curls up when he’s happy and trying not to show it, or his large, brown eyes, the ones that appeared almost like whiskey in color when he was in the sun. Instead of pushing them back this time, a part of his brain allows him to think these thoughts. He relishes in them, the way Kevin’s hair curls and flops onto his head on a hot day, his soft, pink lips, the singular freckle on his shoulder. (He had found that during one of their more adventurous forays.)  
He doesn’t seem to realise how clear it is that he’s lost in thought until he hears the clang of the metal on his shovel hit the ground. The wooden part hits his foot, which sends a cloudburst of searing pain up his right leg.  
“Fuck!” He cries out, hopping on his left one.  
“Are you okay?” Poptarts instantly yells, running back to him.  
“Fine.” He replies through gritted teeth.  
“You idiot. Thinking about Kevin?.” James laughs, now at Connor’s side.  
Once the burst of pain stopped, a sore, fainter yet more persistent pain brushes over him.  
“Fucking hell.” He doesn’t think he’s ever sworn this much. (He probably has.)  
“Do you need a bandage?” Chris asks, concerned.  
“It’s a heavy shovel, not a knife.” James responds, glancing at Poptarts with the faintest hint of a teasing smile on his face. “Come on, let’s go back to the hut. Jesus, Con.”  
“Jesus won’t heal my foot.”  
“You’re a melodramatic one.”  
~•~•~  
Turns out, he isn’t melodramatic, as the joint between his toe and foot clicks strangely for the next few weeks. Another addition to his quickly growing list of injuries. Not to mention, his friends have banned him from cooking while the knife cuts on his hand heal. He’s getting better at cutting things with his eyes closed, and frankly, he likes the fact that it poses a small, yet achievable challenge to him. Not many challenges in his life seem very achievable anymore.  
“For dinner: Rice.” James proudly brings out the plates of white rice to the group.  
“This is dumb. I’m cooking next time.” Connor states, pushing himself up out of his seat.  
“I think rice is a great dinner. Thanks, James.” Poptarts smiles warmly, although there is a hint of joking in the death glare he gives his friend.  
“At least you’re grateful.” The noirette grins.  
It was slightly more bearable when Poptarts cooked dinner. At least he knows how to make pancakes. They’re like, the fifth most easiest dish there is, though.  
Connor frowns at his ‘dinner’, or what one could call it if they had extremely low standards for what constitutes as food.  
“This looks like rat shit.” He states.  
“Maybe I made yours rat shit.” He shrugs nonchalantly, not missing a beat.  
The trio try not to grin at the rest of the elders watch them.  
“Carry on with your own conversations.” Poptarts waves a hand.  
“You all suck. This sucks, I’m cooking dinner.” Connor states, sighing.  
“No, definitely not. Or we’ll force Kevin onto you.” Poptarts replies, moving slightly closer to Connor.  
Apparently, it seems Kevin had heard the group mention his name, and now sat, mortified, in the middle of a bite of rice.  
“This is bullying.” Connor mumbles, looking apologetically to the object of his affections.  
“You’re not a very nice person, Connor.” James sighs.  
“Maybe I’m not. But at least I don’t make rat shit and call it dinner.” He snarkily replies.  
“Feel free to make dinner if you really want to.” Poptarts continues eating his rice. “God knows we need some good cooking sometime.”  
“Now you’re on his side?” James sighs, exasperated.  
“Honey, I was always on his side.” He replies, smiling.  
Connor suddenly feels extremely lucky to have James and Chris in his life, even if they are the worst cooks he’s ever seen.  
~•~•~  
He can’t run from Kevin forever. They live in the same house, after all, so it’s clear that they’d run into each other at some point or another. Connor just wasn’t expecting the brunette to actively search for him, especially as the ginger had been dropping pretty heavy signals that he didn’t want to even faintly know the boy.  
“Elder McKinley, can I please arrange a meeting?” Kevin approaches him almost hesitantly.  
“Is this regarding our work as missionaries?” He responds cooly.  
“It affects everyone in this hut.” He says, vaguely gesticulating around.  
“See me in two hours. My office.”  
The two quaintly nod to each other.  
Connor pinches the scars along his left arm, then his hand. Silently replaying memories in his head, he sets off for the school. After about five minutes, a call echoes up the grassy hill he’s walking on.  
“Wait up!” He hears Poptarts and Elder Neely sprint up, clearly out of breath.  
“Sorry.” He hums to himself, clearly not meaning anything he’s saying.  
“Why’d you leave early?” Elder Neely questions.  
“Not sure.”  
“Not a valid reason, Connor.” Poptarts rubs the back of his neck, fanning himself.  
“Let’s head up.” Elder Neely beckons to the top of hill.  
The trio walk in silence, save the occasional kicked pebbles and scuttering of crunchy leaves.  
“Does anyone have any lesson plans?” Connor asks abruptly.  
“Not really,” Poptarts responds. “I made a bare outline, if that counts for anything.”  
“Cool. We have nothing.” Elder Neely sighs, deep and legato.  
“We can just do some Book Of Arnold study today.”  
“Isn’t that what Kevin’s been doing for the last few weeks?” Connor asks.  
“They enjoy it.” Poptarts persists.  
“Fine.”  
~•~•~   
The lesson, by all means, does fine. It’s badly planned in some parts, but Connor finds he isn’t terribly inclined to care. The bigger issue on his mind now is what he’s going to do with Kevin. He sits in his office, tapping each fingerpad to his thumb anxiously.  
“Hey.” The brunette suddenly enters. Shit, he’s— one minute and twenty-three seconds early.  
“You’re early.” He states.  
The pair is silent.  
“Not anymore. Let’s start this meeting.” Kevin states after precisely one minute and twenty-three seconds.  
“What was it you wanted to talk to me about? This—“ He signals to the hut, very much the same way Kevin did earlier this morning— “Issue that affects everyone?”  
“It’s—“ He pauses as he thinks about how to word this— “Us. It’s us, Connor.”  
“Elaborate?” His face suddenly feels very hot and his hands feel very sticky.  
“We need to figure out what we are.”  
“What do you mean by that?”  
“Are we dating?”  
Connor shrugs and pretends it doesn’t affect him. “No. I thought I made that clear through telling you to piss off—“ He counts on his fingers— “No less than fifteen times these past few weeks.  
“Sorry.” Kevin looks down at his hands, clearly embarrassed.  
“It’s fine.” He sighs.  
“I thought you wanted me. That’s all.”  
“You were a failed experiment.” He’s never lied to expressly hurt someone, but it helps drive his point home, so he does. Just this time.  
“What do you mean by that?” Kevin clearly bristles.  
“I wanted to kiss a guy, I did. It was a sin. You thought it wasn’t. The truth is, I never loved you.” He adds.  
Kevin is shocked into silence.  
“Stop coming back. This is nothing. We’re nothing.”  
“No.. that’s not true, right?” Kevin says hoarsely.  
Connor feels like he can’t breathe.  
“It is.”  
“You use people, McKinley.” Kevin says suddenly. “You use people and never apologise. You’re an asshole. Fuck you.”  
“At least I know how to take a hint once in my life and fuck off when I’m asked.” He states rawly.  
“I don’t want this anymore.” He laughs, and it comes out cold and uncaring. “I came here for a new experience, not to be manipulated by my district leader.” He pauses. “I— I told you everything. I told you everything about my life, even about the General. You threw that all back at me, like once you’re done, you leave me for dead in the ground. I’m an actual person, Connor, has that ever occurred to you?” He’s almost yelling now, his eyes wet and tears starting to leak down onto his normally smooth skin. “Apparently it doesn’t. So, if you’re so happy to use me like that, I’m happy too. Goodbye, Elder McKinley.” He walks out of the door calmly.  
Connor hears something smash and the door slam. He sprints out of his office to find a smashed porcelain mug in pieces on the ground and a distinct lack of Kevin in the room.

Out of all the fights they’ve had, this is easily one of the worst. Up until now, they’ve always made up with a passionate and heated kiss. It’s never ended with either of them storming out of the room. Connor feels guilt prick at his skin. James was right, he was being too harsh. He falls to the ground and starts cleaning up the shattered mug. He suddenly wants to cry when he sees it’s the Mickey Mouse mug he had secretly given Kevin the day he came back from the General’s camp. 

He had come back that day, clearly tired and worn out. Connor still had some extra money, so he quietly bought an old Disney mug from the marketplace and had snuck it into Kevin’s room with a small note that said ‘I hope this will cheer you up’ in almost illegible handwriting. Kevin had never mentioned it to anyone. Connor had never actually seen it again until today, where it lay shattered and broken. He delicately picks up all the pieces, hesitating before throwing it into the bin. He walks into his shared room with Poptarts and slumps onto the ground, finally letting a tear leak out. He’s really fucked this one up, hadn’t he?  
~•~•~  
Kevin doesn’t come back at 9:30pm, also known as the time the rules state one must be at the mission hut by. Connor isn’t really surprised though; everyone knows Kevin’s never been a big one for rules. He sighs and checks the cheap plastic clock hanging over the cupboard.  
9:45, it says with incessant ticking.  
He isn’t particularly sure what he’ll do when Kevin comes back— definitely not punish him, that’s for sure; after all, it was his fault Kevin was even out. He feels guilt tear at him, God, is Kevin okay?  
“What are you thinking about?” Connor doesn’t notice James is there until the latter nudges the former.  
The ginger doesn’t admit to thinking about Kevin. Then he’d have to admit to the fight, of the Disney mug, of the way he’s been using Kevin. Especially the last one. He knows he’s being a bad person, but he can’t really find it in himself to change. He shrugs and gets a plastic cup.  
“Nothing much. You?”  
“About how my childhood best friend is manipulating his boyfriend.” He says in the same nonchalant tone Connor used before. “You’re thinking of Kevin, aren’t you?”  
“Maybe I am. How does that concern you?”  
“It doesn’t, not really. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.” He pauses. “What’s for dinner, oh Chef?”  
“I’m not sure, but definitely nothing with rice. Someone—“ He death glares the noirette— “Used up all of it last night.”  
James chuckles and leaves the room, presumably to go see Poptarts.  
Connor thinks over James’ words. I don’t want to see you get hurt? When did James become so outwardly caring? He almost forgets he’s holding a full cup of water, and jumps back when he spills a small splash on himself. The cup topples out of his hands and the water sloshes out onto the ground. He mutters to himself as he gets the mop. His thoughts turn back to Kevin. Could he love him? Probably not, a small voice says in his head. He still wants to keep hope that maybe Kevin may still stay with him. He isn’t sure what’s happened to himself. Of course, he’s the one trusted with command over a bunch of Mormon missionaries, and of course, the moment a pretty boy comes in, he screws over his track record of no gay thoughts, of everything therapy taught him. Maybe that’s the reason he’s been fighting with Kevin so often. Maybe he’s just scared of being gay. He isn’t gay, a thought tries to reason with him. There’s another part of his brain though; one that is dark and stormy and sticky that says ‘You need to face it sometime’ with the impetus of a thousand stars behind it. He doesn’t particularly like that part, so he doesn’t listen to it and focuses on mopping up the water on the wooden tiles.

Kevin comes back at 10:32pm, 28 seconds before 10:33. Connor doesn’t know why he knows this, as he certainly hasn’t been counting or anything. He misses dinner, the ginger notes. The brunette takes a seat on the couch, across from where Connor is sitting, and picks up a cup of water. It’s then Connor notices he poured out two cups of water.  
“Hey.” The ginger starts tentatively.  
Kevin is silent as he turns away to the other side of Connor. Connor exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding at the thought that Kevin didn’t go out and kiss, or… or have sex with anyone else. His clothes are neat and clean, and his hair isn’t disheveled. More importantly, his face isn’t red the way it is for hours after his forays with Connor, nor are his lips puffy and his shirt untucked. Besides, Kevin would never cheat, if one could call it that. After all, Connor had stated he and Kevin weren’t a thing multiple times. He has to admit, he slightly regrets saying that now.  
“Where were you?”  
He shrugs. “I was at Nabulungi and Mafala’s.” This story appears to be pretty consistent with his appearance, letting a wave of relief wash over Connor.  
“How are they?”  
“Fine.” He shifts in his seat slightly.  
“We were worried.” He says.  
“You shouldn’t have been.” He takes a sip out of his cup.  
Even though no further words are exchanged, Connor can sense that the pair aren’t fighting anymore, that a strange kind of wordless forgiveness hangs between the two. He has so much he still wants to tell Kevin, about how the joint of his toe hurts after the shovel, about how James and Poptarts were worried about going back, about the Disney mug and the flower crown and about all the distance he’s created between him and the other missionaries, who looked up to him so long ago. He can’t find the perfect words to describe anything anymore, he feels that words can’t do justice to the whirlwind of broken hearts that has flurried over all the missionaries these past few months. He moves closer to Kevin instead, so that the very tips of their pinkies are almost touching.  
“We still have to take the trip.” Connor smiles weakly.  
“How about next week?” He offers.  
“Yeah. That works.”  
Kevin tilts his head, and Connor feels a wave of emotion rush to his brain. Before he thinks further of it, he kisses Kevin on the forehead. It’s very gentle compared to the passionate, heated kisses they had shared so many times before, and it lasts for a second too short, so it feels as if he was robbed of a true kiss. Kevin’s skin is weirdly soft but Connor doesn’t really care. He can’t think of anything to say, for his mouth suddenly feels very dry and his cheeks hot.  
“God, you’re pretty.” He half-murmurs, unsure of what’s appropriate between the two anymore.  
He then walks up back to his room, no further words spoken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go! Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	4. twenty-three hours thirty-four minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a perfect picturebook end. Almost.

It’s not like they really stop— stop doing _that_ , whatever that is. It just seems to slightly get better. Whenever Connor is on the brink of yelling, or ignoring or dismissing him, he stops and forces himself to take a breath and reword whatever phrase he is about to say. He can tell Kevin does that too, so he doesn’t really have any complaints. Their relationship has slowly become another type of intense that he’s completely foreign to, a type that’s more soft kisses and puppy love than the heated arguments and running away it used to be. The ginger shovels more clothes into his small pink suitcase, carelessly neglecting to fold them.  
“We have to go.” Kevin pouts, his bottom lip ever-so-slightly jutting out.  
“Fuck. Okay, I know. When does the next bus leave?” His eyes glance over to the window.  
“Every two hours.”  
Connor zips up the suitcase and bounces up.  
“Okay, come on.”  
The two rush outside the hut, barely getting onto the bus in time. They take a seat in one of the least torn seats still available.  
“Told you we could make it.” Connor puffs out, still catching his breath from the one kilometer of running the pair had just completed.  
“Yeah.”  
~•~•~  
Connor is fifteen when James calls him.  
“Hey, is everything okay?” He runs a hand through his orange locks and looks down at his new iPhone.  
“Yeah, everything’s fine. Can you come get me? I’m at the skate park.” He says.  
“Sure.” Connor hums to himself as he grabs some trainers, no further questions asked. He hangs up the phone and steps out into the living room.  
“Mom, can we have a sleepover with James tonight?” He asks, trying to sound casual.  
His mother nods affirmatively. “Do we need to pick him up?”

Connor makes a run to the bathroom before they leave. After roughly five minutes, they set off.

“It’s fine. I’ll go get James.” He states, once they get to the nearest carpark to the skate park.  
“Are you sure?” She questions.  
“Yeah.” He runs off before his mom can get any more words in.

Connor finds James kicking at a tuft of grass erupting from the sidewalk cracks. He sprints up.  
“Carrot-cake!” The noirette calls.  
He breaks down into sobs once he spots the ginger. Connor feels bile rise up his throat at the sight of his friend. The once openly defiant boy’s eye is black and an ugly bruise runs down his kneecap, signalling that—  
“Is the Utah Jazz playing tonight?”  
James sighs in response, utterly miserable.  
“Okay, okay.” He pauses quietly, “I brought some concealer. It should help.” He fishes into his pocket for the small glass bottle he had grabbed from the very back of the cupboard in the bathroom, desperate to make this interaction slightly less awkward than it is right now. Connor finds that the two are just going through the motions, having done this routine, this sickening waltz, over and over again. Maybe it’s the cold, or the but this time he seems to mean what he’s saying slightly more.  
“Does your mom know?” The taller boy smears some concealer onto his face.  
“Certainly not, never– where’d you get that idea from?” Connor stops, startled. James had never asked this before, not the thousands of times that the Jazz had played before, never.  
“I don’t know.” James puts his hands in his pockets and looks down, biting his lip raw.  
“Come on. Mom’s waiting for us in the car.” He grabs his friend’s damp, sticky palm, blends the concealer on his eye so it looks a bit more natural, and sets off for the car park.

If he makes James sleep in another room that night so he won’t hear any screaming, who’s to judge?  
~•~•~  
“Did we plan accommodation?” Kevin questions the second they get off the bus.  
Everyone who’s ever made a trip to collect the post knows places to stay, obviously. Kevin, more so than others. He’d always jump at an opportunity; _who wants to get mail?_ or _who wants to make a hospital trip?_ or _who wants to buy some groceries?_. It sometimes felt like he felt— almost— almost stuck in the small village of Kitguli many of the elders had come to call home. Frankly, Connor can’t blame him. Maybe he can’t understand why one would wish for more when he already has all that he needs, but blame? Never. He’s much like a cigarette, Kevin Price; addictive, bitter, unhealthy, yet somehow charming enough to smoke another, and another, until doors are slammed and mugs are smashed in a fight. Connor can’t figure out why he’s so— he may as well use the term; he’s already a godless heathen in the Church’s eyes— attracted to him. Maybe he was attracted to Kevin’s type. He isn’t sure what type Kevin is, actually. Others seemed so similar, yet so distant, a speck compared the all the room Kevin filled. They had the ego, but not the wit, the carelessness without the heart, the flirtation without the ambition. No, maybe it was just Kevin. Maybe it’s always been Kevin, maybe the two were always meant to be, magnets to each other, opposites attracted. He doesn’t know. The concept of soulmates seems very dangerous now.  
“I know a place, but you probably know here better.” He responds.  
“So, my place? Cool.”  
“Cool— can we get two separate rooms?” Connor grabs Kevin as the brunette is about to leave.  
“Why?”  
“Because I don’t want us to fight.” When did Connor get so good at lying?  
“We’ll see if we have the funds.” He says.  
“Okay.” He answers numbly.

The two trot next to each other until they reach a small, run-down motel between some shops.  
“We can always go to my-“ Connor starts.  
“No. This has running water and is in a safe area. Come on.”  
Connor follows because he doesn’t really want to argue today, and even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to find any retorts. To be honest, the motel he knew didn’t have running water and was wonkily placed in an area all by himself, not so small you felt safe, but not so large you felt that you were at an estate. Just enough to make you feel slightly disconcerted. A feeling you wouldn’t feel anywhere else.

The first thing that strikes him about the lobby is that the room is clean with working lights. A bored, disillusioned staff member sits at the front desk, stale expression on her face.  
“Hi, uh tungependa kuandika,” Connor pauses, because he isn’t sure the word for motel, the Mission Training Center never taught him that, “motel chumba.” He pauses and prays to Heavenly Father that his Swahili is mostly correct. His accent is heavy and he hits the ‘u’ in chumba too hard, but he finds that the receptionist understands.  
“This way.” Wait, she could speak English? He spoke all that Swahili for nothing? “How many rooms?”  
“Uh— how much for two rooms?”  
She states a number that is much higher than Connor had anticipated. The ginger is taken aback, God, so that’s how they have running water.  
“Just one room please.” Kevin cuts in. He’s sitting on a wooden chair with his feet on the table rather blasély, like he isn’t a former Mormon who was ex-communicated after starting what some would view as a cult.  
“Can we get two beds though?” Connor says.  
“I will try to make that happen. Wait here.” The ginger takes a seat, and the receptionist says some rather complex words in Swahili that Connor can’t understand at all, and she takes the two to a room. Room 103.  
“Yours.” She signals and walks back to the reception.  
Connor pushes open the door and sighs when he notices that only one bed is there. Fuck, of course.

“What do we do?” Kevin glances at him.  
“I don’t know. I can take the floor.”  
“It’s a pretty large bed.”  
The idea of sleeping in the same bed with anyone, especially a male, makes Connor’s hair crawl.  
“Let me take the floor.” Kevin is about to interject when Connor looks at him so imploringly that he backs down. “Please.”  
“I feel really bad saying yes to this.” He sighs. “I also feel really bad saying no. So you know what? It’s your choice.”  
Connor smiles as he tosses his travel pillow onto the floor.  
Kevin flops down onto the bed. “What do you want to get for lunch?”  
“I don’t know this area.” He points out, loftily waving a hand around.  
“There might be a place somewhere that sells subs.”  
Connor stands up. “Subs? Like, the sandwiches?”  
“Yeah, probably.”  
“Let’s go then!”  
Turns out, subs are extremely expensive in Kampala. So expensive, in fact, that Kevin and Connor can’t afford any. Connor picks at his posho.  
“What do we have to do today?”  
Kevin pauses his chewing. “I think we should collect the mail, then maybe I could show you around?”  
Connor nods. “Sure.”  
~•~•~  
They haven’t received much mail since the last time they went to go collect it. There’s three letters and a package, the last of which Connor holds in his hands. It’s very clearly for Poptarts, for it feels rather light and when you shake it, you can hear sounds. The address label has half peeled off after two months of shitty storage. Something seems off about the package though.  
“This isn’t for Poptarts.” He stops suddenly.  
“What do you mean?”  
“There’s no brown string wrapping everything up.”  
“Who’s is it then?”  
“I don’t know.” He sighs.  
“Come on, let’s head back to the motel.” Kevin signals to Connor.  
~•~•~  
Connor wakes up at 1am. Given his nightly experiences with Hell dreams, he now deals with the aftermath pretty well. He wipes the sweat off a strand of hair on his forehead and looks around. Oh, right. He breathes in and out. He’s in Kampala, the capital of Uganda. He came to collect mail. He’s here, he’s safe and— is he lying on Kevin? Something distinctively soft acts as a cushion, although it’s too hard to be a pillow. He looks around— shit, he is. He awkwardly readjusts himself so he’s at the very end of the bed, just far enough that none of his skin is touching that of the other boy. It’s strange, he mulls. He goes from openly kissing Kevin on the counter-top one day, to being as far as he can the other day. He wants to be touched by the brunette, but it’s— it’s so disgusting being with another man. He inhales and realises that Kevin smells different. More homely. More— more like Connor? He sighs and gets up, opening the door to go for a walk but ultimately deciding against it. He goes into the toilet and turns on the light. The fluorescent light flickers through the next hour. The air is insufferably warm, but he knows better than to open the windows. Naba had warned him when he first came to Uganda, ‘Never open the windows. It’s the only way to prevent all the crime and bugs.’ He was pretty sure Kevin also got that talk, judging by how he had entered in like he was braving himself for a new world. He was, of sorts. Connor fans himself with his hand and exits the toilet, back into the much cooler air. He makes a move for the bed, but then remembers how it felt with his head on the bend of Kevin’s chest, and settles in on the wooden floor.  
~•~•~  
His neck has a crick in it the next morning. He bends his neck uncomfortable before getting up and settling back down into the red bed just as Kevin wakes up. There are many things he trusts Kevin with, but Hell dreams aren’t one of them.  
~•~•~  
“Truth or dare?”  
“What?” Conor tilts his head at Kevin. They’re standing in line at the shops, Connor carrying two extremely expensive boxes of chocolate Poptarts, and Kevin holding a bottle of hair gel. It wasn’t his usual brand, he had been quick to point out, but American things are hard to get in a continent miles away. Twenty-one hours and thirty-four minutes. That’s how long it takes to get from Salt Lake City, Utah, to Kampala, Uganda. Twenty-one hours and thirty-four minutes. It seems like a very short span of time when represented in symbols, but if you ever experience it yourself, you know that it’s really, truly a lot.  
“Truth or dare.” Kevin sighs. “Do you not know what that is?”  
Dumbfounded, Connor shakes his head.  
“Basically, what you do is you choose ‘truth’ or ‘dare’. If you say truth, I ask you a question and you have to tell the truth. If you say dare, I give you a dare you have to complete.”  
“Okay… truth.”  
“Hm.. Do you find me cute?”  
Connor steps back. “What?”  
“I said, do you find me cute?”  
“Can I choose dare instead?”  
Kevin shakes his head.  
“Fine. Yes— maybe.” He turns his head away, focusing on the broken clock in the corner of the desk.  
“Fantastic. Your turn.” He simply acknowledges, almost as if answering the question was the easiest thing Connor could have ever done. Like it didn’t make him feel so confused and torn and like he was defying everything that had been taught to him since he was eleven.  
“Truth or dare?”  
“Dare.”  
“Lick that clock.” It took five more hours to drive to Kitguli. Twenty-six hours thirty-four minutes. Frankly, Connor doesn’t think he could do it again for a return trip. He sighs as Kevin obediently covers the wood in his saliva. Gross.

They continue playing truth or dare at times when the conversation lulls throughout the day, and Connor finds that there are many things he doesn’t know very much about himself. Like, he doesn’t know what his favorite color is, or what fruit he would be, or what his best attribute is.  
“Truth.” Kevin smirks as Connor struggles to find a question.  
“Uh— when did you get your first Hell dream?”  
Kevin looks away wistfully. “I was six. There were these— so there were these donuts, with a maple glaze on them. I snuck into the kitchen and stole one, then blamed my brother Jack the next morning. That night, I got a Hell dream.”  
“And you still beat yourself up over that?”  
“I did, for a long time.”  
“Then you lost your faith and everything went to shit anyway. Cool.”  
Kevin laughs and hits Connor’s shoulder. “Fuck you.”  
“Oh, fuck me? Let’s not do that right just now.” Connor slaps his hand over his mouth. Did he really just say that?  
“When did you get your first Hell dream?” Kevin asks abruptly.  
“I can’t really remember. I mean… I’ve had them for so long.” He says  
How often do you have to get Hell dreams to not remember your first? He realises.  
“Jesus wept, how many do you normally get?”  
Connor tries to play it off as cool and shrugs. “Once a night, most nights. Maybe two if it’s really bad.”  
Kevin doesn’t offer any condolences like everyone else has. He doesn’t say ‘sorry’ or ‘that’s so messed up’ or ‘do you need to talk?’, like how everyone else has reacted when Connor tells them this tidbit of information. He simply looks at the ginger and says “You must be tired.”  
He exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding for almost twenty years.  
“Yeah, I am. Truth or dare?”  
“Dare.”  
“Climb that tree and yell in a very heavily accented Swahili.”  
“No! My accent is already bad, you know that.”  
“It can’t be that bad.”  
Kevin sighs and recites the approved missionary script in ear-screechingly horrible Swahili, the kind you would expect of Elder Cunningham.  
“What do you sound like in normal Swahili?” Connor asks curiously.  
Kevin smiles secretively and leans his mouth against Connor’s ear.  
“ _Nakupenda sana._ ”  
I love you very much. Perfect phrasing and pronunciation, of course. Connor feels himself furiously blushing. It’s a phrase he’s familiar with, given the fact that the villagers of Kitguli love out of every pore they have. It’s funny, reflects Connor. The villagers always seem to have the largest issues— he recalls back to General BFN, (“I’ll turn you into a lesbian!”)— but they always seemed the happiest in their circumstances. There was no turning it off, there was no forcing a hole in their heart to close no matter how disruptive it is to their life. They climb out of that hole and patiently wait for it to seal back up. They cope, he supposes is a good term for it. They cope through love and songs and through flower crowns and dreams of a better future. It’s nice to hear someone so unabashedly do and say things that the Church would have shrieked at. They changed the missionaries, for better or for worse. You have to admit that much.  
“I love you too.”  
~•~•~  
The bus ride home is rather uneventful, except for that one time when the package fell out of the bus window and the pair had to run out of the bus and grab it. Most of the conversation is basic small talk, interjected with some truth or dare, but Connor finds that this time around, he really doesn’t mind.  
“I think the package is yours.” Kevin mutters.  
“How do you know?”  
“It says ‘C MK’ at the bottom. Connor McKinley?”  
“Okay?”  
“Do you want to open it here?”  
Connor sighs. “Are you that desperate to know what’s in this package?”  
“No, it’s just that—“ he walks away before continuing— “It could be something bad.”  
“And you think I’ll react badly?” Connor knows this is why, but he decides that it’s rather fun to see Kevin so flustered.  
“Just open it.” He finally settles for after a few minutes of trying to convince the redhead that no, that isn’t the case here.  
Connor opens up the package without any further complaint, crinkling up the brown paper much like how one might play a B flat major and cautiously peeking inside. A variety of formal-looking documents sit inside. Connor pulls out one.  
“Birth certificate.” He reads aloud.  
No, they didn’t.  
What the _fuck_ was wrong with them?  
“At least they had the decency to give you all your files back?”  
God, he knew they were shitty people, but this?  
He doesn’t know what he’s feeling. It’s a strange mixture, relief and anger.  
“It must seem really official now, mustn’t it?” Kevin looks at Connor, who feels himself slowly relax.  
“Oh well. More reason for us to get that apartment together.” He smiles, feeling slightly better.  
The two have stopped walking back to the mission hut, instead sitting underneath a tree. The dusty ground burns their feet and the air is uncomfortably humid, but it’s okay. The two are together.  
“My parents haven’t talked to me since the Mission President visit.” Kevin says slowly.  
“Do you want to talk about it?” Connor asks.  
“Not really. I guess I have to though.”  
“Have you called them?” Kevin shakes his head. “We can call our parents when we get back to the hut together.”

Connor isn’t sure what he’s promising, but Kevin’s eyes glint and his smile is just there, and that makes Connor think he’s saying the right thing.  
“Done. Let’s do it.”  
~•~•~  
It’s funny how so much has changed since Uganda. Things Mormon Connor would have turned his nose at have become some of his biggest sources of joy. He’s surrounded by swear-happy Africans, villagers, friends, but most importantly, brothers and sisters. And a very swear-happy ex-Mormon too, he supposes. He doesn’t half-mind the ex-Mormon though. More importantly, although his Church has abandoned him, although his parents have left him and his friends back in the US don’t want anything to do with him, he knows that God still loves him, mistakes and all.

Connor and Kevin stop just outside the mission hut.  
“Are you ready?” asks Kevin.  
Connor kisses the brunette on the nose. It’s a bit hard, considering he’s holding a parcel and two boxes of Poptarts, but he doesn’t mind. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”  
The two enter the hut holding hands.  
“We’re back!”  
Arnold is the first to appear. “Hi Kevin! Hey Elder McKinley!” He runs to go give Kevin one of his signature bear hugs.  
Connor smiles to himself as he leaves Kevin and Arnold alone. It’s their moment, he shouldn’t intrude after all.  
“Carrot-cake! What Poptarts did you bring?” Chris walks over to him, embracing the ginger. “Ooh, chocolate. Basic and simple. I like it.”  
“Where’s James?”  
“Off… somewhere. Not sure. I think he’s making dinner?”  
“God help us all.” mutters Connor, speed-walking to the kitchen.  
Through the window, he can see the hint of speckles white against ivory blue. Note: take Kevin to see stars, he reminds himself. He leans his arm against James’ shoulder as he enters the kitchen.  
“Whatcha doing?”  
“I’m about to make a salad.”  
“We don’t have any vegetables,” Connor counters.  
“Yeah, it’s mostly going to be tomato,” he says as Connor raises an eyebrow. “By mostly, I mean all. I’m cutting up tomato and serving that for dinner.” He sighs. “I burnt the yam mash.”  
Connor frowns. “Elder Church, please leave the kitchen.”  
The noirette obediently leaves, complete with a sarcastic salute. Connor reminds himself to never leave the district alone again as he looks down at the yam mash. After a moment’s worth of contemplation he cautiously dips a finger in and licks it. How is it sweet? He pulls a face and, after a thought as to whether he should serve James this tomorrow, throws it into the trash. Tomato soup it is, he supposes.

“Do you want my help?” Kevin stands at the doorway.  
“I see you escaped from Arnold.”  
“I see you’ve been cutting the vegetables with your eyes closed again. They look like shit.” He points at a piece to the left of Connor. “That one is the first object in the history of the world to ever have only two dimensions.” He points at a considerably larger piece. “That one is somehow double the size of the original tomato.”  
“Yeah, thank James for that.” Connor laughs.  
“What are we?” Kevin asks as he grabs a pot. “Are we like dating, or..”  
“Put water in that pot.” He turns to look at Kevin. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I don’t think I’m ready just yet.” He picks at a hangnail.  
“That’s cool too. I can wait.”  
“You’ll find someone better while I’m getting ready.” Connor blunty states. It’s the truth, he thinks.  
“Hey, what?” Kevin slides off the counter he was sitting on and grabs Connor’s chin so the redhead is looking up at him. “Connor… all I want is you. Anything you do is alright. I trust you to do the right thing.”  
Connor forces his face away. “I know.” He mumbles.  
“I can prove it.” Without a further word from Connor, Kevin smiles a little, and kisses him. It’s the first time Kevin’s ever started a kiss, and it’s so satisfying and sweet, with a sense of completeness on Connor’s lips after. Connor pulls away first.  
“I love you.” The ginger whispers.  
“Bad choice, but okay.” Kevin turns away to look at the water.  
Connor feels a grin creep upon his face. He pours the tomato into the water and gets Elder Davis, the second best cook in District 9, to go watch over the soup.  
“I have something to show you.” He tells Kevin.  
He grabs Kevin’s arm, tells him to close his eyes and leads him outside. “Open your eyes now.”  
“What is it?” The brunette blinks, confused.  
Connor lies down onto the ground. “The stars.”  
Kevin lies down next to Connor. “They’re really pretty tonight. We don’t get them in the USA, do we?”  
Connor shakes his head. “Daydream with me, Kev.”  
“What do we dream about?”  
“What we’ll do when gay marriage has been legalised.”  
“Maybe it already has been.” Kevin responds.  
“Kevin McKinley. That has a nice ring to it.” In a moment of emotion, the redhead grabs the taller boy’s hand. The two share a glance, and Connor wiggles so he can be slightly closer to Kevin.  
“That star’s bright.” The taller boy points at a star just to the left of Connor.  
“It reminds me of you. The brightest star in District Nine.”  
“It’ll die someday.” sighs Kevin.  
“It’s already dead. We’re seeing it in the past.”  
The two pause the admire the stars.  
“Maybe we’re seeing from a time when I was still a narcissist egomaniac.”  
“And I a flustered, conflicted district leader.” He pauses. “There’s a flower crown under my bed.” He doesn’t know why he feels like he has to mention it. Maybe now that they’re being more open, he just wants to get it all out.  
“Mhm?” Kevin raises an eyebrow.  
“Naba gave it to me. I liked it, but I was scared that it seemed gay.”  
“You turned out gay anyway.”  
“Who do I thank for that?” He knows his legs are getting bitten by mosquitoes and ants, and that any normal person would go back soon, but he, Connor McKinley, is most definitely not a normal person. The past nine months hammered in that fact rather quickly.  
“I ruined your life.” Kevin smiles.  
“You ruined Elder McKinley’s life.”  
“Is there a difference?”  
Connor shifts on the ground slightly. “I like to think there is.”  
Kevin hums in agreement. “Same.” He looks at Connor and ruffles the shorter boy’s hair. “Kevin and Connor. No one else in the world.”  
“Our past selves are gone. They don’t exist anymore.”  
“We should go back inside.”  
“The others are probably already eating.” Connor agrees.  
“It’s comfortable here though.” Kevin resists slightly.  
Connor stands up and grabs the taller boy’s arm.  
“I’m proud of you, Connor McKinley.” The brunette says as he stands up.  
The ginger pauses. “Why?”  
“You’ve become a—“  
“A less shitty person.” Connor cuts off wisely.  
“Yeah.”  
The two walk back into the mission hut.  
“Are you gonna come eat?”  
Connor shrugs. “Don’t really feel like it.” He sits down on the couch.  
“Move over.” Kevin sits next to Connor. “Let’s sleep here.”  
The redhead laughs. “Definitely not.”  
“Please?”  
“Fine.” Connor says, because who is he to say no to Kevin Price?  
The two sit there, occasionally exchanging glances or making small talk until Kevin falls asleep. Connor lets himself drift off soon after, resting his head onto the crook of the brunette’s neck.

How did he get so lucky?  
~•~•~  
He doesn’t have a Hell dream that night, but after years of waking at ridiculously early times, you tend to find that 5am is considered rather late in your biological clock. So when Connor McKinley does wake up, he thinks he’s overslept his alarm, although the sun is still down and the night is a misty, faint dark. He sits up, dazed and slightly confused, but, as he comes to his senses, is filled with nothing but love and the warm memories made of last night. There’s something strangely bittersweet about the early hours of the morning, he thinks. It’s like a quiet sense of solitude that veers on the cliff of lonely, but retracts the moment it dips its toe down. Regardless, it’s nice, if not numb or dreary. He spots the still sleeping Kevin, the brunette’s head on Connor’s chest, hands tightly gripping his ribs. Connor awkwardly tries pushes the larger boy’s head off his body without waking him up, to no avail.  
“Whur-dy-a-going?” Kevin, eyes closed, makes grabby hands in what he can only assume to be the general direction of Connor.  
“I have to get up.”  
“Come back.” Kevin whines, a slight drone in his voice.  
“I have work today.” Connor sighs, reiterating what he feels like he’s said thousands of times before.  
“Bullshit.”  
“I’m district leader, Kev.”  
“There’s no district anymore.” He retorts without missing a beat.  
“I’ve still got work to do.” Connor bites his lip.  
“It’s dark outside.” He shifts slightly on the couch. “I smell like you.”  
“Is that bad?”  
“Not really.”  
Connor sighs and steps away from the couch. “Where are you from?” He doesn’t know why he asks this, but it seems it’s never occurred to either of them to ask where the other was from in their time together.  
“Don’t you know?” When Connor shakes his head, he adds, “I’ll tell you if you come back.”  
“No.”  
“Please? It can just be us two.”  
“It will be weird in the morning. The others will talk.”  
“They all already know after everything that’s been going on, don’t you think?” Kevin’s eyes were now fully open and clearly visible in the illuminated night.  
“Just tell me.” Connor feels a hint of exasperation roll off the tip of his tongue.  
“Fine. Salt Lake City, Utah.”  
“My parents will be proud. A boy from the Promised Land, huh?”  
“I’m not special, eighty percent of us are Mormons.”  
“Yes, but I doubt eighty percent of Utah natives have gone on their mission in Uganda, lost their faith, unknowingly started a new religion, become a coffee addict, watched a particularly raunchy play without realising what was going on and sworn for their first time ever, all within a week.” Connor smirks.  
“Where are you from, anyways?” Kevin glances at Connor, melting puppy dog eyes painfully sweet.  
“Columbus, Ohio.”  
“That’s so far away!” If Connor didn’t know better, he would have said that there’s a hint of panic in Kevin’s voice.  
“Do you want any water?”  
“I want you to come back. I’m cold now. I have no one to cuddle with since you’re leaving me too.”  
The ginger pauses. “Are you trying to guilt me into a healthier sleeping schedule?”  
“What’ll you do if I am?”  
Connor notices how Kevin’s lips wrap around each other perfectly in a coy smile, and he’s overcome with affection; affection for this brown-haired boy with the toothpaste commercial teeth and the overly cocky tilt of his head and the puppy-dog eyes that strived to spell out every single emotion that flickered across his face throughout the day. Affection for a boy who, just a little over nine months ago, he despised with all his heart. He climbs back onto the sofa, suddenly overcome with so many emotions he can’t put a label onto before laying his head into the gentle rises and falls of the taller boy’s chest. And— and he realises that he wouldn’t trade this, this single quiet moment, for all the ballet lessons, all the red boxes or the sparkly pink waistcoats or flower crowns or Disney mugs in the whole world. From today, he wants to truly start giving a resounding ‘screw it’ and taking life one day at a time. He snuggles further into Kevin and lets himself slowly drift off. Five more minutes, he says to himself.

Then he has to get up.

====

“Do you have their number memorised?”  
“I’m not some three year old, Con. I can do this myself.”  
“Mhm, sure— Maybe I just want to be here with you.”  
“Bullshit.” Kevin smiles and pinches Connor’s arm.  
“Ow! Fuck.” The ginger starts back, rubbing at the now red skin. “Now you’ve done it. You can go call your parents yourself.”  
The room feels rather light and easy, Connor thinks. Not a particularly fitting room, but it works. Somehow.  
“Do you want any water?”  
“To spill on this phone if they pick up, sure.” Kevin mutters.  
“It can’t be that bad.”  
Kevin scoffs. “How would you know? Your parents just kinda… dumped all your shit back to you once you failed. You don’t have to talk to them again, if you don’t want to, that is.”  
“And why would I want to?” Connor shrugs. “Besides, I don’t even know how to do taxes, and now I’m pretty much disowned. Strange way to go about life, if you ask me.”  
“Can we do this tomorrow?” Kevin sighs.  
Connor’s never seen Kevin so anxious before. He’s used to the brunette being strong, confident, everything Connor failed to do. He isn’t sure whether Kevin has another setting that he can just turn on and off, or if this has always been a part of the nineteen year old’s personality since he was born. Regardless, seeing something other than the poster boy the group had quickly gotten used to was a fun, albeit rather rare treat. It’s nice, he supposes. It’s nice how Kevin now doesn’t feel like he has to subconsciously turn it off, how he’s finally realised he can talk. It’s not like he wants to talk very often, thank God for that. At least he does sometimes though. 

As for the other elders, it seems like they’re coping rather well, at least regarding the whole excommunication thing. If it takes a rather neurotic Connor and wildly variable Kevin to address the issues in the system one calls freedom, maybe Connor would be willing to do it again. They fumble, sometimes dragging their feet on the marathon of life, but they still progress up the ranks. To the ginger, that’s all that matters. Day by day, he supposes. Tomorrow is a Latter Day and all that. He was the person who first adopted this idea, wasn’t he? Death and the life that may or may not lie after it is a strange concept to think of, one that’s definitely not fitting to be on some nineteen year old’s missionaries’ minds. What does the future hold? They aren’t sure, but there seems to be a general aura of completeness, full harmony. Everything’s wrapping up rather nicely.

There isn’t much to be said for the villagers. They’re simple, Connor supposes. They love and feel sad and experience the wide range of emotions every human on Earth has probably felt at one point or another. The difference is that they don’t hide or turn it off. The Latter Day Saint missionaries of District Nine, brothers and sisters in every way to Connor except blood. They laugh and cry and make mistakes but in the end, they all come through, despite everything they’ve faced. It’s a fairytale, maybe not a PG one, or a very cliche one, but happy and loving never the less. Love is an immense power that can heal and create so much, and it’s something that so many here thrive off of. The Americans could  
learn a little bit from them.

“I swear to God, this phone is the shit I see in my sleep paralysis.” Especially this particular elder.  
“Just call them.”  
“Can you call yours first?” Kevin sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.  
“We only have twenty minutes a month, and we aren’t wasting it on me. Maybe your parents even want you back. You never know.”  
“I highly doubt it.”  
“My birthday’s tomorrow.” Connor mentions, fanning himself with his hand. “That’s why I gave everyone here a day off.”  
“You said, and I quote, it was because the scathing heat would have distracted everyone here from their work.” Kevin snorts, glaring daggers at the redhead.  
“Okay, maybe that was only part of the reason.”  
“You’re turning twenty tomorrow, right?”  
“Only one year away from becoming a full adult. Who can drink and get married and all that.”  
“You’ve already gotten drunk.” Kevin says sarcastically.  
“Your opinion doesn’t count here, Price.”  
“Sure it doesn’t.”  
“I haven’t gotten married before, though.” Connor slides onto the yellow couch, his head over the arm of the chair.  
“Is that what you’re suggesting we do next?” Kevin raises an eyebrow at the shorter boy’s unusual pose on the couch.  
“Could be a fun bonding activity.”  
Does he find the brunette insufferable? Connor can answer a resounding yes to that. Is he also irritatingly charming and witty? Sadly, that also has to be a yes. Is it possible for someone to not only stand his personality, but also be attracted to it? Apparently Connor is.  
“Who would take whose last name?” Kevin asks.  
“You’re the girl.”  
“We aren’t even dating. Also, how and why am I the girl?”  
“Because I said so. Feel free to fuck off and date someone else if you're so against it. Go get a nice Mormon girl or something.”  
“Oh, you know I couldn’t do that to you.” Kevin grabs a plastic cup, having now long forgotten about the phone call. “Did you have a nice future wife back at home before this entire thing happened?”  
“No.” It’s the truth. There’s always been Kevin, and only Kevin in the back of his mind, or at the very least, someone like him. Maybe Connor’s attracted to his type. Maybe it was always meant to be Kevin. Maybe the two were made for each other. He isn’t really sure. Besides, Kevin is nice. He’s rude and condescending, and sometimes insufferable, and he always makes a show of doing things for Connor. A flair for the dramatic. Maybe that’s the only thing Kevin and Connor share in common. It’s not a terrible thing to share with your maybe-future boyfriend, Connor supposes. But above all that, there’s always a part of him that others don’t get to see, one that gives you his hoodie after you— after you almost drown, let’s put it that way— one that tells you his secrets simply and plainly, one that watches the fireflies with you even after he’s stated he wants to go sleep. Nice can’t describe all those things Kevin has done.  
“Tell me you’ve never told anyone before.” Kevin wraps an arm around Connor’s shoulder. The ginger tries extremely hard not to pry it off, because it’s one of those days where being touched by a guy makes him want to vomit. He resists his brain though, because it’s Kevin, and he likes having Kevin around.  
He chuckles mirthlessly. “I’m gay, Kev.” He runs a finger along the taller boy’s arm, refusing to make eye contact. “I’m really, truly gay. Homosexual.” He ignores the tears in his eyes suddenly threatening to spill over.  
“I already know that after you kissed me.”  
“Your turn.”  
“Truth.”  
“What’s something you’ve never told anyone?”  
Kevin smiles conspiratorially and leans down so his lip is barely brushing Connor’s ear. “I ate that Poptart last week.”  
Connor pulls himself away from the boy, a look of mock-horror on his face. “You did what? Do you understand how long it took me to calm down Poptarts?”  
“Yes, and I can’t say I regret it.”  
Connor punches the brunette on the arm. “I’m breaking up with you, Mr Kevin Price.”  
“Jesus, Con.” It seemed to have become something of a catchphrase here in District Nine. Jesus, Con, for whenever the ginger did something wrong, or was acting stupid. Even though it’s a bad thing, Connor doesn’t mind. It makes him feel special. “What were we even doing before this?”  
“I think we were about to call your parents?”  
“Oh well. I like doing this more.”  
Connor sighs, pushing himself off the brunette with a sad kiss. “You have to face them some time, Kev.”  
“What if I don’t want to?”  
“I will give you permission to call me Carrot-cake if you do.” Connor sighs at Kevin’s ecstatic grin. A permission reserved for only the highest. Poptarts and James only.  
“Ok, Carrot-cake. Come on.”  
“You can’t call me that until you call your parents.”  
Kevin huffs and walks over to the phone. He pauses as his hand brushes the wooden table. “Can you hold my hand while I call them?”  
Connor nods. “Of course.”  
Connor instantly regrets agreeing the moment the words escape out of his lips. The two haven’t had the most conventional relationship, and that included skipping over the hand-holding. Regardless, he grabs Kevin’s hand.  
“What’s their number?”  
“One, eight, zero, one, five, two, seven, two, four, three, one.” He repeats the numbers monotonously, reciting without stopping to think of the numbers, hitting each digit with a sharp marcato and a softer diminuendo near the end.  
“Come on, enter it in.” Connor nudges Kevin.  
Kevin sighs and leans into the phone. Connor feels the taller boy’s pulse explode.  
“Hi.” Kevin says on the third ring. “It’s me, Kevin.” A pause.  
“No, I’m not rejoining the Church. I can’t, Mom.”  
“Yes, I was excommunicated.”  
“Maybe you would have known if you kept up-to-date with me.”  
Connor can’t hear the conversation, so he nudges Kevin and mouths ‘Speaker’. Thank God the church gave them a landline with a speaker. Kevin presses the button, and the sound fills the room.  
“How were we meant to keep up-to-date with you? You ruined our family’s image. We couldn’t keep in contact with you.” A sharp voice comes through onto the telephone, and Connor understands exactly why Kevin forced himself to be such a good Mormon.  
“You could have tried.” Kevin’s voice wavers and cracks slightly. “You could have tried to love me, Mom. But you didn’t. I’m sorry you didn’t ever get love in your own life. But it doesn’t mean you can ruin mine.”  
He hears Kevin’s mom huff again. “People loved you, Kevin. You were such a lovely child.”  
“Why is it that all that matters is my image?”  
“Because it affects all of us.”  
“I wanted to just be myself. Uganda gave me a chance to do that.”  
“It turned you into a godless heathen.”  
“Maybe I was always godless.”  
“None of the members of the Price family want anything to do with you anymore.”  
There’s a thick pause in the air. “Mom, I’m atheist.”  
Silence fills the air. “Mom, I don’t believe there’s a god. You know what? Fuck it. I love coffee, and I love swearing, and—“ He pauses— “I love my boyfriend. And my boyfriend loves God.”  
“What happened to you?”  
“And, most importantly, I love you.”  
A click on the line.

Kevin wipes at his mostly dry eyes. “So. That’s it. I guess I’m disowned.”  
Connor grabs a hand to steady his friend. “Wow. Yeah. I’m sorry.”  
“It’s fine. We all knew it was going to happen one day or another.”  
“It doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to be sad over it though.”  
“I know. I mean, it feels kind of… I don’t know how to word it.”  
“Like, cathartic? Or does it give you a sense of resolution and all that?” He asks, because he knows exactly how Kevin would feel right now. He’s been there.  
“Yeah, I suppose it does. All of those things you said.”  
“It’s going to be okay.”  
“I’m not that sad over it.” Kevin sighs. “It’s weird. I don’t feel like crying. It’s just like… an ending to the story.”  
“Yeah, it is.”  
“Happy early birthday, Connor. Here’s to twenty more.”  
“Most people live to their forties, Kevin.” Connor says.  
“Most people don’t lose their parents at nineteen, but look where we are now.”  
“That is true, I suppose.”  
“It’s nice being with you.”  
“Same to you.”  
====  
Connor is twenty today. Ten years after he quit ballet. Nine after he kissed Steve. Eight after he started therapy. One year after he met Kevin Price. One after he was excommunicated. One after he was disowned. One after he admitted he was gay. The other elders claimed that they had some kind of huge surprise for the ginger’s birthday, so he had given them the day off to prepare. He highly doubts they have anything though, considering Arnold hasn’t said anything or given anything away yet. He smiles at the thought of his elders all cooperating, even though he knew Poptarts didn’t really like Elder Neely. (He rubs off on me, the blonde had said one night as he was drifting off.)

He raises his leg onto the couch, and winces at how it doesn’t sit the way it used to when he was seven. He’s flexible, sure. Just not as flexible as a child who went to ballet lessons twice a week. A twinge of nostalgia hits him at the thought of his friends back in the USA. The ones from church probably didn’t want to hear anything from him. That’s fair, considering ‘Elder McKinley’ would have definitely turned up his nose at Connor. He stretches for a few minutes, before humming a simple, classical song to himself. Arrival of the Queen of Sheba. It’s a song he had listened to Steve play on his violin over and over again. Steve was a fantastic violinist. Connor was a great dancer. He knows that eleven year old Connor wouldn’t have traded the world for that. Even if Steve wasn’t Mormon. Normally he would have disapproved of that, but he made an exception. Steve was Catholic, anyway. It was similar enough.  
He does a releve, making sure his hands rose gently so it looked just effortless. He uses the couch as a barre. It’s not ideal, but not much is ideal for him anymore.  
“What are you doing?” Kevin, Poptarts and James walk back through the door.  
Connor feels a strange sense that he’s long since pushed to the periphery to his mind: A need to tell the truth. “Dancing.”  
“You dance?” Poptarts raises an eyebrow.  
“Surprised?” He performs a attitude, leg raised to the side at roughly ninety degrees. He almost slips and loses his balance, but tries to remain dignified. His leg hurts. He was never that good at attitudes.  
“You’re good.” Kevin says.  
“Come dance with me, Kevin.”  
“I don’t know how to dance.”  
“Anyone can dance. I taught James how to.”  
“You did?” Poptarts and Kevin say in unison, looking between the ginger and the noirette.  
“Yeah, although I’m not as good as Connor.” James sighs.  
“Come on, Kevin. Dance.”  
“How?”  
Connor grabs Kevin’s arm. “Let’s try a pas de deux.”  
“I think this is your moment, Connor. There will be more chances for us to dance together.”  
The ginger nods approvingly as the three men leave him.  
He continues to dance alone. It’s awkward and rough, but it feels right. More right than going to church ever made him. More right than going to therapy, than learning to turn it off ever made him feel. He brushes his fingers against the now-healed scars on his hand until they tingle, because it reminds him that everything is finally okay. He doesn’t think about cutting food with his eyes closed, or the way the Disney mug shattered so easily after the fight with Kevin, or the party and how he got drunk. He knows life has to go on, and that he has to go back to America, and to be honest, he isn’t quite sure what will happen then, but he finds that he isn’t really compelled to care anymore.  
He focuses on a pas de chat instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking on this journey with me! Words cannot express how grateful I am.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Updates will probably be weekly.


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